THE  REVOLT  OF 
THE  OYSTER 


BOOKS  BY  DON  MARQUIS 


CRUISE  OF  THE  JASPER  B. 

DANNY'S  OWN  STORY 

DREAMS  AND  DUST 

HERMIONE  AND  HER  LITTLE  GROUP  OF 

SERIOUS  THINKERS 
POEMS  AND  PORTRAITS 
PREFACES  (DECORATIONS  BY  TONY  SARG) 
SONNETS  TO  A  RED-HAIRED  LADY  AND 

FAMOUS  LOVE  AFFAIRS 
THE  OLD  SOAK  AND  HAIL  AND  FAREWELL 
THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 


THE  REVOLT  OF 
THE  OYSTER  * 

BY  N^ 

DON    MARQUIS 


GARDEN    CITY  NEW    YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1922 


COPYRIGHT,   1912,   1913,   1922,  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED,    INCLUDING   THAT   OF   TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN   LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE   SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYRIGHT,  IQOQ,  BY  INTERNATIONAL  MAGAZINE  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1913,  1915,  1917,  BY  THE  CROWELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  I92O,  1921,  BY  CONSOLIDATED  MAGAZINES  CORPORATION  (THE 

RED-BOOK  MAGAZINE).      ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 
COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY  COLUMBIA  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

AT 
THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 

First  Edition 


CONTENTS 


PACE 


THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER i 

"!F  WE  COULD  ONLY  SEE" 18 

How  HANK  SIGNED  THE  PLEDGE 38 

ACCURSED  HAT! 58 

ROONEY'S  TOUCHDOWN 65 

Too  AMERICAN       78 

THE  SADDEST  MAN 102 

DOGS  AND  BOYS 133 

THE  KIDNAPPING  OF  BILL  PATTERSON 151 

BLOOD  WILL  TELL i?1 

BEING  A  PUBLIC  CHARACTER 182 

WRITTEN  IN  BLOOD 198 


494511 


THE  REVOLT  OF 
THE  OYSTER 


THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER. 

"Our  remote  ancestor  was  probably  arboreal." — Eminent  scientist. 

FROM  his  hut  in  the  tree-top  Probably  Arboreal 
looked  lazily  down  a  broad  vista,  still  strewn  with  fallen 
timber  as  the  result  of  a  whirlwind  that  had  once  played 
havoc  in  that  part  of  the  forest,  toward  the  sea.  Be 
yond  the  beach  of  hard  white  sand  the  water  lay  blue 
and  vast  and  scarcely  ruffled  by  the  light  morning 
wind.  All  the  world  and  his  wife  were  out  fishing 
this  fine  day.  Probably  Arboreal  could  see  dozens  of 
people  from  where  he  crouched,  splashing  in  the  water 
or  moving  about  the  beach,  and  even  hear  their  cries 
borne  faintly  to  him  on  the  breeze.  They  fished,  for 
the  most  part,  with  their  hands;  and  when  one  caught 
a  fish  it  was  his  custom  to  eat  it  where  he  caught  it, 
standing  in  the  sea. 

In  Probably  Arboreal's  circle,  one  often  bathed  and 
breakfasted  simultaneously;  if  a  shark  or  saurian  were 
too  quick  for  one,  one  sometimes  was  breakfasted  upon 
as  one  bathed. 

In  the  hut  next  to  Probably  Arboreal,  his  neighbour, 
Slightly  Simian,  was  having  an  argument  with  Mrs. 
Slightly,  as  usual.  And,  as  usual,  it  concerned  the 


2-       ;  :THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

proper  manner  of  bringing  up  the  children.  Probably 
listened  with  the  bored  distaste  of  a  bachelor. 

"I  will  slap  his  feet  every  time  he  picks  things  up 
with  them!"  screamed  Slightly  Simian's  wife,  an  ac 
credited  shrew,  in  her  shrill  falsetto. 

"It's  natural  for  a  child  to  use  his  feet  that  way," 
insisted  the  good-natured  Slightly,  "and  I  don't  intend 
to  have  the  boy  punished  for  what's  natural."  Prob 
ably  Arboreal  grinned;  he  could  fancy  the  expression 
on  Old  Sim's  face  as  his  friend  made  this  characteris 
tically  plebeian  plea. 

"You  can  understand  once  for  all,  Slightly/'  said  that 
gentleman's  wife. in  a  tone  of  finality,  "that  I  intend 
to  supervise  the  bringing-up  of  these  children.  Just  be 
cause  your  people  had  neither  birth  nor  breeding  nor 
manners " 

"Mrs.  S. !"  broke  in  Slightly,  with  a  warning  in  his 
voice.  "Don't  you  work  around  to  anything  caudal, 
now,  Mrs.  S. !  Or  there'll  be  trouble.  You  get 
me?" 

On  one  occasion  Mrs.  Slightly  had  twitted  her  spouse 
with  the  fact  that  his  grandfather  had  a  tail  five  inches 
long;  she  had  never  done  so  again.  Slightly  Simian 
himself,  in  his  moments  of  excitement,  picked  things 
up  with  his  feet,  but  like  many  other  men  of  humble 
origin  who  have  become  personages  in  their  maturity,  he 
did  not  relish  having  such  faults  commented  upon. 

"Poor  old  Sim,"  mused  Probably  Arboreal,  as  he 
slid  down  the  tree  and  ambled  toward  the  beach,  to 
be  out  of  range  of  the  family  quarrel.  "She  married 


THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER      3 

him  for  his  property,  and  now  she's  sore  on  him  because 
there  isn't  more  of  it." 

Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  the  unpleasant  effect  of  the 
quarrel,  Probably  found  his  mind  dwelling  upon  matri 
mony  that  morning.  A  girl  with  bright  red  hair,  into 
which  she  had  tastefully  braided  a  number  of  green 
parrot  feathers,  hit  him  coquettishly  between  the 
shoulder  blades  with  a  handful  of  wet  sand  and  gravel 
as  he  went  into  the  water.  Ordinarily  he  would  either 
have  taken  no  notice  at  all  of  her,  or  else  would  have 
broken  her  wrist  in  a  slow,  dignified,  manly  sort  of  way. 
But  this  morning  he  grabbed  her  tenderly  by  the  hair 
and  sentimentally  ducked  her.  When  she  was  nearly 
drowned  he  released  her.  She  came  out  of  the  water 
squealing  with  rage  like  a  wild-cat  and  bit  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

"Parrot  Feathers,"  he  said  to  her,  with  an  unwonted 
softness  in  his  eyes,  as  he  clutched  her  by  the  throat 
and  squeezed,  "beware  how  you  trifle  with  a  man's 
affections — some  day  I  may  take  you  seriously!" 

He  let  the  girl  squirm  loose,  and  she  scrambled  out 
upon  the  beach  and  threw  shells  and  jagged  pieces  of 
flint  at  him,  with  an  affectation  of  coyness.  He  chased 
her,  caught  her  by  the  hair  again,  and  scored  the  wet 
skin  on  her  arms  with  a  sharp  stone,  until  she  screamed 
with  the  pain,  and  as  he  did  it  he  hummed  an  old  love 
tune,  for  to-day  there  was  an  April  gladness  in  his  heart. 

"Probably!  Probably  Arboreal!"  He  spun  around 
to  face  the  girl's  father,  Crooked  Nose,  who  was  con 
tentedly  munching  a  mullet. 


4     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

"Probably,"  said  Crooked  Nose,  "you  are  flirting 
with  my  daughter!" 

"Father!"  breathed  the  girl,  ashamed  of  her  parent's 
tactlessness.  "How  can  you  say  that!" 

"I  want  to  know,"  said  Crooked  Nose,  as  sternly  as 
a  man  can  who  is  masticating  mullet,  "whether  your  in 
tentions  are  serious  and  honourable." 

"Oh,  father!"  said  Parrot  Feathers  again.  And  put 
ting  her  hands  in  front  of  her  face  to  hide  her  blushes 
she  ran  off.  Nevertheless,  she  paused  when  a  dozen 
feet  away  and  threw  a  piece  of  drift-wood  at  Probably 
Arboreal.  It  hit  him  on  the  shin,  and  as  he  rubbed  the 
spot,  watching  her  disappear  into  the  forest,  he  mur 
mured  aloud,  "Now,  I  wonder  what  she  means  by  that!" 

"Means,"  said  Crooked  Nose.  "Don't  be  an  ass, 
Probably!  Don't  pretend  to  me  you  don't  know  what 
the  child  means.  You  made  her  love  you.  You  have  ex 
ercised  your  arts  of  fascination  on  an  innocent  young 
girl,  and  now  you  have  the  nerve  to  wonder  what  she 
means.  What'll  you  give  me  for  her?" 

"See  here,  Crooked  Nose,"  said  Probably,  "don't 
bluster  with  me."  His  finer  sensibilities  were  out 
raged.  He  did  not  intend  to  be  coerced  into  matrimony 
by  any  father,  even  though  he  were  pleased  with  that 
father's  daughter.  "I'm  not  buying  any  wives  to-day, 
Crooked  Nose." 

"You  have  hurt  her  market  value,"  said  Crooked 
Nose,  dropping  his  domineering  air,  and  affecting  a 
willingness  to  reason.  "Those  marks  on  her  arms  will 
not  come  off  for  weeks.  And  what  man  wants  to  marry 


THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER      5 

a  scarred-up  woman  unless  he  has  made  the  scars  him 
self?" 

"Crooked  Nose,"  said  Probably  Arboreal,  angry  at 
the  whole  world  because  what  might  have  been  a  youth 
ful  romance  had  been  given  such  a  sordid  turn  by  this 
disgusting  father,  "if  you  don't  go  away  I  will  scar 
every  daughter  you've  got  in  your  part  of  the  woods. 
Do  you  get  me?" 

"I  wish  you'd  look  them  over,"  said  Crooked  Nose. 
"You  might  do  worse  than  marry  all  of  them." 

"I'll  marry  none  of  them!"  cried  Probably,  in  a  rage, 
and  turned  to  go  into  the  sea  again. 

A  heavy  boulder  hurtled  past  his  head.  He  whirled 
about  and  discovered  Crooked  Nose  in  the  act  of  re 
covering  his  balance  after  having  flung  it.  He  caught 
the  old  man  half  way  between  the  beach  and  the  edge 
of  the  forest.  The  clan,  including  Crooked  Nose's 
four  daughters,  gathered  round  in  a  ring  to  watch  the 
fight. 

It  was  not  much  of  a  combat.  When  it  was  over, 
and  the  girls  took  hold  of  what  remained  of  their  late 
parent  to  drag  him  into  the  woods,  Probably  Arboreal 
stepped  up  to  Parrot  Feathers  and  laid  his  hand  upon 
her  arm. 

"Feathers,"  he  said,  "now  that  there  can  be  no 
question  of  coercion,  will  you  and  your  sisters  marry 
me?" 

She  turned  toward  him  with  a  sobered  face.  Grief 
had  turned  her  from  a  girl  into  a  woman. 

"Probably,"   she  said,   "you   are  only  making  this 


6     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

offer  out  of  generosity.  It  is  not  love  that  prompts  it. 
I  cannot  accept.  As  for  my  sisters,  they  must  speak 
for  themselves/' 

"You  are  angry  with  me,  Feathers?" 

The  girl  turned  sadly  away.  Probably  watched  the 
funeral  cortege  winding  into  the  woods,  and  then  went 
moodily  back  to  the  ocean.  Now  that  she  had  refused 
him,  he  desired  her  above  all  things.  But  how  to  win 
her?  He  saw  clearly  that  it  could  be  no  question  of 
brute  force.  It  had  gone  beyond  that.  If  he  used 
force  with  her,  it  must  infallibly  remind  her  of  the  un 
fortunate  affair  with  her  father.  Some  heroic  action 
might  attract  her  to  him  again.  Prabably  resolved  to 
be  a  hero  at  the  very  earliest  opportunity. 

In  the  meantime  he  would  breakfast.  Breakfast 
had  already  been  long  delayed;  and  it  was  as  true  then, 
far  back  in  the  dim  dawn  of  time,  as  it  is  now,  that  he 
who  does  not  breakfast  at  some  time  during  the  day 
must  go  hungry  to  bed  at  night.  Once  more  Probably 
Arboreal  stepped  into  the  ocean — stepped  in  without 
any  premonition  that  he  was  to  be  a  hero  indeed;  that 
he  was  chosen  by  Fate,  by  Destiny,  by  the  Presiding 
Genius  of  this  planet,  by  whatever  force  or  intelligence 
you  will,  to  champion  the  cause  of  all  Mankind  in  a 
crucial  struggle  for  human  supremacy. 

He  waded  into  the  water  up  to  his  waist,  and  bent 
forward  with  his  arms  beneath  the  surface,  patiently 
waiting.  It  was  thus  that  our  remote  ancestors  fished. 
Fish  ran  larger  in  those  days,  as  a  rule.  In  the  deeper 
waters  they  were  monstrous.  The  smaller  fish  there- 


THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER      7 

fore  sought  the  shallows  where  the  big  ones,  greedy 
cannibals,  could  not  follow  them.  A  man  seldom  stood 
in  the  sea  as  Probably  Arboreal  was  doing  more  than 
ten  minutes  without  a  fish  brushing  against  him  either 
accidentally  or  because  the  fish  thought  the  man  was 
something  good  to  eat.  As  soon  as  a  fish  touched  him, 
the  man  would  grab  for  it.  If  he  were  clumsy  and 
missed  too  many  fish,  he  starved  to  death.  Experts 
survived  because  they  were  expert;  by  a  natural  proc 
ess  of  weeding  out  the  awkward  it  had  come  about 
that  men  were  marvellously  adept.  A  bear  who  stands 
by  the  edge  of  a  river  watching  for  salmon  at  the  time  of 
the  year  when  they  run  up  stream  to  spawn,  and  scoops 
them  from  the  water  with  a  deft  twitch  of  his  paw,  was 
not  more  quick  or  skillful  than  Probably  Arboreal. 

Suddenly  he  pitched  forward,  struggling;  he  gave  a 
gurgling  shout,  and  his  head  disappeared  beneath  the 
water. 

When  it  came  up  again,  he  twisted  toward  the  shore, 
Vith  lashing  arms  and  something  like  panic  on  his  face, 
and  shouted: 

"Oh!  Oh!  Oh!"  he  cried.  "Something  has  me  by 
the  foot!" 

Twenty  or  thirty  men  and  women  who  heard  the 
cry  stopped  fishing  and  straightened  up  to  look  at  him. 

^Help!  Help!"  he  shouted  again.  "It  is  pulling 
me  out  to  sea!" 

A  knock-kneed  old  veteran,  with  long  intelligent- 
looking  mobile  toes,  broke  from  the  surf  and  scurried 
to  the  safety  of  the  beach,  raising  the  cry: 


8     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

"A  god!  A  god!  A  water-god  has  caught  Prob 
ably  Arboreal!" 

"More  likely  a  devil!"  cried  Slightly  Simian,  who 
had  followed  Probably  to  the  water. 

And  all  his  neighbours  plunged  to  land  and  left 
Probably  Arboreal  to  his  fate,  whatever  his  fate  was  to 
be.  But  since  spectacles  are  always  interesting,  they 
sat  down  comfortably  on  the  beach  to  see  how  long  it 
would  be  before  Probably  Arboreal  disappeared.  Gods 
and  devils,  sharks  and  octopi,  were  forever  grabbing 
one  of  their  number  and  making  off  to  deep  water  with 
him  to  devour  him  at  their  leisure.  If  the  thing  that 
dragged  the  man  were  seen,  if  it  showed  itself  to  be  a 
shark  or  an  octopus,  a  shark  or  an  octopus  it  was;  if 
it  were  unseen,  it  got  the  credit  of  being  a  god  or  a 
devil. 

"Help  me!"  begged  Probably  Arboreal,  who  was  now 
holding  his  own,  although  he  was  not  able  to  pull  him 
self  into  shallower  water.  "It  is  not  a  god  or  a  devil. 
It  doesn't  feel  like  one.  And  it  isn't  a  shark,  because 
it  hasn't  any  teeth.  It  is  an  animal  like  a  cleft  stick, 
and  my  foot  is  in  the  cleft." 

But  they  did  not  help  him.  Instead,  Big  Mouth, 
a  seer  and  vers  libre  poet  of  the  day,  smitten  suddenly 
with  an  idea,  raised  a  chant,  and  presently  all  the  others 
joined  in.  The  chant  went  like  this: 

"Probably,  he  killed  Crooked  Nose, 

He  killed  him  with   his  fists. 

And  Crooked  Nose,  he  sent  his  ghost  to  sea 


THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER     9 

To  catch  his  slayer  by  the  foot! 

The    ghost    of    Crooked    Nose    will    drown    his 

slayer, 

Drown,  drown,  drown  his  slayer, 
The    ghost    of    Crooked    Nose    will    drown    his 

slayer, 
Drown  his  slayer  in  the  sea!" 

"You  are  a  liar,  Big  Mouth!"  spluttered  Probably 
Arboreal,  hopping  on  one  foot  and  thrashing  the 
water  with  his  arms.  "It  is  not  a  ghost;  it  is  an 
animal." 

But  the  chant  kept  up,  growing  louder  and  louder: 

"The    ghost   of   Crooked    Nose    will    drown    his 

slayer! 

Drown,  drown,  drown  his  slayer, 
Drown  his  slayer  in  the  sea!" 

Out  of  the  woods  came  running  more  and  more 
people  at  the  noise  of  the  chant.  And  as  they 
caught  what  was  going  on,  they  took  up  the  burden 
of  it,  until  hundreds  and  thousands  of  them  were 
singing  it. 

But,  with  a  mighty  turn  and  struggle,  Probably 
Arboreal  went  under  again,  as  to  his  head  and  body; 
his  feet  for  an  instant  swished  into  the  air,  and  every 
one  but  Probably  Arboreal  himself  saw  what  was 
hanging  on  to  one  of  them. 

It   was   neither  ghost,   shark,   god,   nor   devil.     It 


10  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

was  a  monstrous  oyster;  a  bull  oyster,  evidently.  All 
oysters  were  much  larger  in  those  days  than  they  are 
now,  but  this  oyster  was  a  giant,  a  mastodon,  a  mam 
moth  among  oysters,  even  for  those  days. 

"It  is  an  oyster,  an  oyster,  an  oyster!"  cried  the 
crowd,  as  Probably  Arboreal's  head  and  shoulders 
came  out  of  the  water  again. 

Big  Mouth,  the  poet,  naturally  chagrined,  and 
hating  to  yield  up  his  dramatic  idea,  tried  to  raise 
another  chant: 

"The    ghost    of    Crooked    Nose    went    into    an 

oyster, 

The  oyster  caught  his  slayer  by  the  foot 
To  drown,  drown,  drown  him  in  the  sea!" 

But  it  didn't  work.  The  world  had  seen  that  oyster, 
and  had  recognized  it  for  an  oyster. 

"Oyster!  Oyster!  Oyster!"  cried  the  crowd  sternly 
at  Big  Mouth. 

The  bard  tried  to  persevere,  but  Slightly  Simian,  feel 
ing  the  crowd  with  him,  advanced  menacingly  and  said: 

"See  here,  Big  Mouth,  we  know  a  ghost  when  we  see 
one,  and  we  know  an  oyster!  Yon  animal  is  an  oyster! 
You  sing  that  it  is  an  oyster,  or  shut  up!" 

"Ghost,  ghost,  ghost,"  chanted  Big  Mouth,  tenta 
tively.  But  he  got  no  farther.  Slightly  Simian  killed 
him  with  a  club,  and  the  matter  was  settled.  Liter 
ary  criticism  was  direct,  straightforward,  and  effective 
in  those  days. 


THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER     11 

"But,  oh,  ye  gods  of  the  water,  what  an  oyster!"  cried 
Mrs.  Slightly  Simian. 

And  as  the  thought  took  them  all,  a  silence  fell  over 
the  multitude.  They  looked  at  the  struggling  man  in 
a  new  community  of  idea.  Oysters  they  had  seen  be 
fore,  but  never  an  oyster  like  this.  Oysters  they  knew 
not  as  food;  but  they  had  always  regarded  them  as 
rather  ineffectual  and  harmless  creatures.  Yet  this 
bold  oyster  was  actually  giving  battle,  and  on  equal 
terms,  to  a  man !  Were  oysters  henceforth  to  be  added 
.to  the  number  of  man's  enemies?  Were  oysters  about 
to  attempt  to  conquer  mankind?  This  oyster,  was  he 
the  champion  of  the  sea,  sent  up  out  of  its  depths,  to 
grapple  with  mankind  for  supremacy? 

Dimly,  vaguely,  as  they  watched  the  man  attempt 
to  pull  the  oyster  ashore,  and  the  oyster  attempt  to  pull 
the  man  out  to  sea,  some  sense  of  the  importance  of  this 
struggle  was  felt  by  mankind.  Over  forest,  beach,  and 
ocean  hung  the  sense  of  momentous  things.  A  haze 
passed  across  the  face  of  the  bright  morning  sun;  the 
breeze  died  down;  it  was  as  if  all  nature  held  her 
breath  at  this  struggle.  And  if  mankind  upon  the  land 
was  interested,  the  sea  was  no  less  concerned.  For, 
of  £  sudden,  and  as  if  by  preconcerted  signal,  a  hundred 
thousand  oysters  poked  their  heads  above  the  surface  of 
the  waters  and  turned  their  eyes — they  had  small  fiery 
opalescent  eyes  in  those  days — upon  the  combat. 

At  this  appearance,  mankind  drew  back  with  a  gasp, 
but  no  word  was  uttered.  The  visible  universe,  per 
turbed  earth  and  bending  heavens  alike,  was  tense  and 


12  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

dumb.  On  their  part,  the  oysters  made  no  attempt  to 
go  to  the  assistance  of  their  champion.  Nor  did  man 
kind  leap  to  the  rescue  of  Probably  Arboreal.  Tacitly, 
each  side,  in  a  spirit  of  fair  play,  agreed  not  to  interfere; 
agreed  to  leave  the  combat  to  the  champions;  agreed 
to  abide  by  the  issue. 

But  while  they  were  stirred  and  held  by  the  sense  of 
tremendous  things  impending,  neither  men  nor  oysters 
could  be  expected  to  understand  definitely  what  almost 
infinite  things  depended  upon  this  battle.  There  were 
no  Darwins  then.  Evolution  had  not  yet  evolved 
the  individual  able  to  catch  her  at  it. 

But  she  was  on  her  way.  This  very  struggle  was  one 
of  the  crucial  moments  in  the  history  of  evolution. 
There  have  always  been  these  critical  periods  when  the 
two  highest  species  in  the  world  were  about  equal  in  in 
telligence,  and  it  was  touch  and  go  as  to  which  would 
survive  and  carry  on  the  torch,  and  which  species  would 
lose  the  lead  and  become  subservient.  There  have  al 
ways  been  exact  instants  when  the  spirit  of  progress 
hesitated  as  between  the  forms  of  life,  doubtful  as  to 
which  one  to  make  its  representative. 

Briefly,  if  the  oyster  conquered  the  man,  more  and 
more  oysters,  emboldened  by  this  success,  would  prey 
upon  men.  Man,  in  the  course  of  a  few  hundred  thou 
sand  years,  would  become  the  creature  of  the  oyster; 
the  oyster's  slave  and  food.  Then  the  highest  type  of 
life  on  the  planet  would  dwell  in  the  sea.  The  civiliza 
tion  which  was  not  yet  would  be  a  marine  growth 
when  it  did  come;  the  intellectual  and  spiritual  and 


THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER     13 

physical  supremacy  held  by  the  biped  would  pass  over 
to  the  bivalve. 

Thought  could  not  frame  this  concept  then;  neither 
shellfish  nor  tree-dweller  uttered  it.  But  both  the 
species  felt  it;  they  watched  Probably  Arboreal  and 
the  oyster  with  a  strangling  emotion,  with  a  quivering 
intentness,  that  was  none  the  less  poignant  because  there 
was  no  Huxley  or  Spencer  present  to  interpret  it  for 
them;  they  thrilled  and  sweat  and  shivered  with  the 
shaken  universe,  and  the  red  sun  through  its  haze 
peered  down  unwinking  like  the  vast  bloodshot  eye  of 
life. 

An  hour  had  passed  by  in  silence  except  for  the  sound 
of  the  battle,  more  and  more  men  and  more  and  more 
oysters  had  gathered  about  the  scene  of  the  struggle; 
the  strain  was  telling  on  both  champions.  Probably 
Arboreal  had  succeeded  in  dragging  the  beast  some  ten 
feet  nearer  the  shore,  but  the  exertion  had  told  upon 
him;  he  was  growing  tired;  he  was  breathing  with 
difficulty;  he  had  swallowed  a  great  deal  of  salt  water. 
He  too  was  dimly  conscious  of  the  importance  of  this 
frightful  combat;  he  felt  himself  the  representative  of 
the  human  race.  He  was  desperate  but  cool;  he  saved 
his  breath;  he  opposed  to  the  brute  force  of  the  oyster 
the  cunning  of  a  man.  But  he  was  growing  weaker; 
he  felt  it. 

If  only  those  for  whom  he  was  fighting  would  fling 
him  some  word  of  encouragement !  He  was  too  proud 
to  ask  it,  but  he  felt  bitterly  that  he  was  not  supported, 
for  he  could  not  realize  what  emotion  had  smitten 


14     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

dumb  his  fellow  men.  He  had  got  to  the  place  where  a 
word  of  spiritual  comfort  and  encouragement  would 
have  meant  as  much  as  fifty  pounds  of  weight  in  his 
favour. 

He  had,  in  fact,  arrived  at  the  Psychological  Moment. 
There  were  no  professing  psychologists  then;  but  there 
was  psychology;  and  it  worked  itself  up  into  moments 
even  as  it  does  to-day. 

Probably  Arboreal's  head  went  under  the  water,  tears 
and  salt  ocean  mingled  nauseatingly  in  his  mouth. 

"I  am  lost/'  he  gurgled. 

But  at  that  instant  a  shout  went  up — the  shrill, 
high  cry  of  a  woman.  Even  in  his  agony  he  recognized 
that  voice — the  voice  of  Parrot  Feathers!  With  a 
splendid  rally  he  turned  his  face  toward  the  shore. 

She  was  struggling  through  the  crowd,  fighting  her 
way  to  the  front  rank  with  the  fury  of  a  wildcat.  She 
had  just  buried  her  father,  and  the  earth  was  still  dark 
and  damp  upon  her  hands,  but  the  magnificent  creature 
had  only  one  thought  now.  She  thought  only  of  her 
lover,  her  heroic  lover;  in  her  nobility  of  soul  she  had 
been  able  to  rise  above  the  pettiness  of  spirit  which 
another  woman  might  have  felt;  she  knew  no  pique  or 
spite.  Her  lover  was  in  trouble,  and  her  place  was 
nigh  him;  so  she  flung  a  false  maidenly  modesty  to  the 
winds  and  acknowledged  him  and  cheered  him  on,  care 
less  of  what  the  assembled  world  might  think. 

She  arrived  at  the  Psychological  Moment. 

" Probably!  Probably!"  she  cried.  "Don't  give  up! 
Don't  give  up !  For  my  sake !" 


THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER     15 

For  her  sake!  The  words  were  like  fire  in  the  veins 
of  the  struggling  hero.  He  made  another  bursting  ef 
fort,  and  gained  a  yard.  But  the  rally  had  weakened 
him;  the  next  instant  his  head  went  under  the  water 
once  more.  Would  it  ever  appear  again?  There 
was  a  long,  long  moment,  while  all  mankind  strangled 
and  gasped  in  sympathetic  unison,  and  then  our  hero's 
dripping  head  did  emerge.  It  had  hit  a  stone  under 
water,  and  it  was  bleeding,  but  it  emerged.  One  eye 
was  nearly  closed. 

"Watch  him !  Watch  him !"  shouted  Parrot  Feathers. 
"Don't  let  him  do  that  again !  When  he  has  you  under 
water  he  whacks  your  eye  with  his  tail.  He's  trying 
to  blind  you!" 

And,  indeed,  these  seemed  to  be  the  desperate  oyster's 
tactics.  If  he  could  once  destroy  our  hero's  sight,  the 
end  would  soon  come. 

"Probably — do  you  hear  me?" 

He  nodded  his  head;  he  was  beyond  speech. 

"Take  a  long  breath  and  dive!  Do  you  get  me? 
Dive !  Dive  at  your  own  feet !  Grab  your  feet  in  your 
hands  and  roll  under  water  in  a  bunch!  Roll  toward 
the  beach!" 

It  was  a  desperate  manoeuvre,  especially  for  a  man 
who  had  already  been  under  water  so  much  that  morn 
ing.  But  the  situation  was  critical  and  called  for  the 
taking  of  big  chances.  It  would  either  succeed — or 
fail.  And  death  was  no  surer  if  it  failed  than  if  he 
waited.  Probably  Arboreal  ceased  to  think;  he  yielded 
up  his  reasoning  powers  to  the  noble  and  courageous 


16  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

woman  on  the  sand;  he  dived  and  grabbed  his  feet 
and  rolled. 

"Again!  Again!"  she  cried.  "Another  long  breath 
and  roll  again!" 

Her  bosom  heaved,  as  if  she  were  actually  breathing 
for  him.  To  Probably  Arboreal,  now  all  but  drowned, 
and  almost  impervious  to  feeling,  it  also  seemed  as  if 
he  were  breathing  with  her  lungs;  and  yet  he  hardly 
dared  to  dive  and  roll  again.  He  struggled  in  the 
water  and  stared  at  her  stupidly. 

She  sent  her  unusual  and  electric  personality  thrilling 
into  him  across  the  intervening  distance;  she  held  him 
with  her  eyes,  and  filled  him  with  her  spirit. 

"Roll!"  she  commanded.     "Probably!     Roll!" 

And  under  the  lash  of  her  courage,  he  rolled  again. 
Three  more  times  he  rolled  .  .  .  and  then  .  .  . 
unconscious,  but  still  breathing,  he  was  in  her  arms. 

As  he  reached  the  land  half  a  million  oysters  sank 
into  the  sea  in  the  silence  of  defeat  and  despair,  while 
from  the  beaches  rose  a  mighty  shout. 

The  sun,  as  if  it  gestured,  flung  the  mists  from  its 
face,  and  beamed  benignly. 

"Back!  Back!  Give  him  air!"  cried  Parrot  Feath 
ers,  as  she  addressed  herself  to  the  task  of  removing  the 
oyster  from  his  foot. 

The  giant  beast  was  dying,  and  its  jaws  were  locked 
in  the  rigour  of  its  suffering.  There  was  no  way  to  re 
move  it  gently.  Parrot  Feathers  laid  her  unconscious 
hero's  foot  upon  one  rock,  and  broke  the  oyster  loose 
with  another. 


THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER     17 

Incidentally  she  smashed  Probably  Arboreal's  toe. 

He  sat  up  in  pained  surprise.  Unthinkingly,  as  you 
or  I  would  put  a  hurt  finger  into  our  mouths,  he  put 
his  crushed  toe  into  his  mouth.  At  that  period  of  man's 
history  the  trick  was  not  difficult.  And  then 

A  beatific  smile  spread  over  his  face! 

Man  had  tasted  the  oyster! 

In  half  an  hour,  mankind  was  plunging  into  the  waves 
searching  for  oysters.  The  oyster's  doom  was  sealed. 
His  monstrous  pretension  that  he  belonged  in  the  van 
of  evolutionary  progress  was  killed  forever.  He  had 
been  tasted,  and  found  food.  He  would  never  again 
battle  for  supremacy.  Meekly  he  yielded  to  his  fate. 
He  is  food  to  this  day. 

Parrot  Feathers  and  Probably  Arboreal  were  married 
after  breakfast.  On  the  toes  of  their  first  child  were 
ten  cunning,  diminutive  oyster  shells.  Mankind,  up  to 
that  time,  had  had  sharp  toenails  like  the  claws  of 
birds.  But  the  flat,  shell-like  toenails,  the  symbols 
of  man's  triumph  over,  and  trampling  down  of,  the 
oyster  were  inherited  from  the  children  of  this  happy 
couple. 

They  persist  to  this  day. 


"IF  WE  COULD  ONLY  SEE" 

I 

LUNCH  finished,  Mr.  Ferdinand  Wimple,  the  poet, 
sullenly  removed  his  coat  and  sulkily  carried  the  dishes 
to  the  kitchen  sink.  He  swore  in  a  melodious  murmur, 
as  a  cat  purrs,  as  he  turned  the  hot  water  on  to  the 
plates,  and  he  splashed  profanely  with  a  wet  dishcloth. 

"I'm  going  to  do  the  dishes  to-day,  Ferd,"  announced 
his  wife,  pleasantly  enough.  She  was  a  not  unpleasant- 
looking  woman;  she  gave  the  impression  that  she 
might,  indeed,  be  a  distinctly  pleasant-looking  woman, 
if  she  could  avoid  seeming  jiurried.  She  would  have 
been  a  pretty  woman,  in  fact,  if  she  had  been  able 
to  give  the  time  to  it. 

When  she  said  that  she  would  do  the  dishes  herself, 
Mr.  Wimple  immediately  let  the  dishcloth  drop  with 
out  another  word,  profane  or  otherwise,  and  began 
to  dry  his  hands,  preparatory  to  putting  on  his  coat 
again.  But  she  continued: 

"I  want  you  to  do  the  twins'  wash/'  .    . 

''What?"  cried  Mr.  Wimple,  outraged.  He  ran  one 
of  his  plump  hands  through  his  thick  tawny  hair  and 
stared  at  his  wife  with  latent  hatred  in  his  brown  eyes 

.  .  .  those  eyes  of  which  so  many  women  had 

18 


"IF  WE  COULD  ONLY  SEE"  19 

remarked:  "Aren't  Mr.  Wimple's  eyes  wonderful;  just 
simply  wonderful!  So  magnetic,  if  you  get  what  I 
mean!"  Mr.  Wimple's  head,  by  many  of  his  female 
admirers,  was  spoken  of  as  "leonine."  His  detractors 
— for  who  has  them  not? — dwelt  rather  upon  the  phys 
ical  reminder  of  Mr.  Wimple,  which  was  more  sug 
gestive  of  the  ox. 

"I  said  I  wanted  you  to  do  the  twins'  wash  for  me," 
repeated  Mrs.  Wimple,  awed  neither  by  the  lion's  visage 
nor  the  bovine  torso.  Mrs.  Wimple's  own  hair  was 
red;  and  in  a  quietly  red-haired  sort  of  way  she  looked 
as  if  she  expected  her  words  to  be  heeded. 

"H !"  said  the  poet,  in  a  round  baritone  which 

enriched  the  ear  as  if  a  harpist  had  plucked  the  lovely 

string  of  G.  "H !"  But  there  was  more  music 

than  resolution  in  the  sound.  It  floated  somewhat 
tentatively  upon  the  air.  Mr.  Wimple  was  not  in  re 
volt.  He  was  wondering  if  he  had  the  courage  to 
revolt. 

Mrs.  Wimple  lifted  the  cover  of  the  laundry  tub, 
which  stood  beside  the  sink,  threw  in  the  babies' 
"things,"  turned  on  the  hot  water,  and  said: 

"Better  shave  some  laundry  soap  and  throw  it  in, 
Ferd." 

"Heavens!"  declared  Mr.  Wimple.  "To  expect  a 
man  of  my  temperament  to  do  that!"  But  still  he 
did  not  say  that  he  would  not  do  it. 

"Someone  has  to  do  it,"  contributed  his  wife. 

"I  never  kicked  on  the  dishes,  Nell,"  said  Mr.  Wimple. 
"But  this,  this  is  too  much!" 


20  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

"I  have  been  doing  it  for  ten  days,  ever  since  the 
maid  left.  I'm  feeling  rotten  to-day,  and  you  can 
take  a  turn  at  it,  Ferd.  My  back  hurts."  Still  Mrs. 
Wimple  was  not  unpleasant;  but  she  was  obviously 
determined. 

"Your  back!"  sang  Mr.  Wimple,  the  minstrel,  and 
shook  his  mane.  'Tour  back  hurts  you!  My  soul 
hurts  me!  How  could  I  go  direct  from  that — that 
damnable  occupation — that  most  repulsive  of  domes 
tic  occupations — that  bourgeois  occupation — to  Mrs. 
Watson's  tea  this  afternoon  and  deliver  my  mes- 
sage?" 

A  shimmer  of  heat  (perhaps  from  her  hair)  suddenly 
dried  up  whatever  dew  of  pleasantness  remained  in 
Mrs.  Wimple's  manner.  'They're  just  as  much  your 
twins  as  they  are  mine,"  she  began  .  .  .  but  just 
then  one  of  them  cried. 

A  fraction  of  a  second  later  the  other  one  cried. 

Mrs.  Wimple  hurried  from  the  kitchen  and  reached 
the  living  room  in  time  to  prevent  mayhem.  The  twins, 
aged  one  year,  were  painfully  entangled  with  one  an 
other  on  the  floor.  The  twin  Ronald  had  conceived 
the  idea  that  perhaps  the  twin  Dugald's  thumb  was 
edible,  and  was  testing  five  or  six  of  his  newly  acquired 
teeth  upon  it.  Childe  Dugald  had  been  inspired  by 
his  daemon  with  the  notion  that  one  of  Childe  Ronald's 
ears  might  be  detachable,  and  was  endeavouring  to  de 
tach  it.  The  situation  was  but  too  evidently  distress 
ing  to  both  of  them,  but  neither  seemed  capable  of  the 
mental  initiative  necessary  to  end  it.  Even  when  little 


"IF  WE  COULD  ONLY  SEE"  21 

Ronald  opened  his  mouth  to  scream,  little  Dugald  did 
not  remove  the  thumb. 

Mrs.  Wimple  unscrambled  them,  wiped  their  noses, 
gave  them  rattles,  rubber  dolls,  and  goats  to  wreak 
themselves  upon,  and  returned  to  the  kitchen  thinking 
(for  she  did  not  lack  her  humorous  gleams)  that  the 
situation  in  the  living  room  bore  a  certain  resemblance 
to  the  situation  in  the  kitchen.  She  and  Ferdinand 
bit  and  scratched  figuratively,  but  they  had  not  the 
initiative  to  break  loose  from  one  another. 

Mr.  Wimple  was  shaving  soap  into  the  laundry  tub, 
but  he  stopped  when  she  entered  and  sang  at  her: 
"And  why  did  the  maid  leave?" 

"You  know  why  she  left,  Ferd." 

"She  left,"  chanted  Ferdinand,  poking  the  twins'  cloth 
ing  viciously  with  a  wooden  paddle,  "because  .  .  ." 

But  what  Mr.  Wimple  said,  and  the  way  he  said  it, 
falls  naturally  into  the  freer  sort  of  verse: 

"She  left  [sang  Mr.  Wimple] 

Because  her  discontent     .     .     . 

Her  individual  discontent, 

Which  is  a  part  of  the  current  general  discontent 

Of  all  the  labouring  classes     .     .     . 

Was  constantly  aggravated 

By  your  jarring  personality, 

Mrs.  Wimple! 

There  is  no  harmony  in  this  house, 

Mrs.  Wimple] 

No  harmony!" 


22  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

Mrs.  Wimple  replied  in  sordid  prose: 

"She  left  because  she  was  offered  more  money  else 
where,  and  we  couldn't  afford  to  meet  the  difference/' 

Something  like  a  sob  vibrated  through  Mr.  Wimple's 
opulent  voice  as  he  rejoined: 

"Nellie,  that  is  a  blow  that  I  did  not  look  for!  You 
have  stabbed  me  with  a  poisoned  weapon !  Yes,  Nellie, 
I  am  poor !  So  was  Edgar  Poe.  What  the  world  calls 
poor!  I  shall,  in  all  likelihood,  never  be  rich  .  .  . 
what  the  world  calls  rich.  But  I  have  my  art!  I  have 
my  ideals!  I  have  my  inner  life!  I  have  my  dreams! 
Poor?  Poor?  Yes,  Nell!  Poor!  So  was  Robert 
Burns!  I  am  poor!  I  make  no  compromise  with  the 
mob.  Nor  shall  I  ever  debase  my  gift  for  money.  No! 
Such  as  I  am,  I  shall  bear  the  torch  that  has  been  in 
trusted  to  me  till  I  fall  fainting  at  the  goal !  I  have  a 
message.  To  me  it  is  precious  stuff,  and  I  shall  not 
alloy  it  with  the  dross  called  gold.  Poor?  Yes,  Nell! 
And  you  have  the  heart  to  cast  it  in  my  teeth!  You, 
Nellie!  You,  from  whom  I  once  expected  sympathy 
and  understanding.  You,  whom  I  chose  from  all  the 
world,  and  took  into  my  life  because  I  fancied  that 
you,  too,  saw  the  vision !  Yes,  Elinor,  I  dreamed  that 
once!" 

II 

Mr.  Wimple  achieved  pathos  .  .  .  almost  trag 
edy.  To  a  trivial  mind,  however,  the  effect  might  have 
been  somewhat  spoiled  by  the  fact  that  in  his  fervour 
he  gesticulated  wildly  with  the  wooden  paddle  in  one 


"IF  WE  COULD  ONLY  SEE"  23 

hand  and  an  undergarment  belonging  to  Ronald  in  the 
other.  The  truly  sensitive  soul  would  have  seen  these 
things  as  emphasizing  his  pathos. 

Mrs.  Wimple,  when  Mr.  Wimple  became  lyric  in  his 
utterance,  often  had  the  perverse  impulse  to  answer 
him  in  a  slangy  vernacular  which,  if  not  actually  coarse, 
was  not,  on  the  other  hand,  the  dialect  of  the  aesthete. 
For  some  months  now,  she  had  noticed,  whenever  Fer 
dinand  took  out  his  soul  and  petted  it  verbally,  she  had 
had  the  desire  to  lacerate  it  with  uncouth  parts  of 
speech.  Ordinarily  she  frowned  on  slang;  but  when 
Ferdinand's  soul  leaped  into  the  arena  she  found  slang 
a  weapon  strangely  facile  to  her  clutch. 

"Coming  down  to  brass  tacks  on.  this  money  thing, 
Ferdy,"  said  Mrs.  Wimple,  "y°u're  not  the  downy  peach 
you  picture  in  the  ads.  I'll  tell  the  world  you're  not! 
You  kid  yourself,  Ferdy.  Some  of  your  bloom  has 
been  removed,  Ferdy.  Don't  go  so  far  upstage  when 
you  speak  to  me  about  the  dross  the  world  calls  gold. 
The  reason  we  can't  afford  a  maid  now  is  because  you 
got  swell-headed  and  kicked  over  that  perfectly  good 
magazine  job  you  used  to  have.  You  thought  you  were 
going  to  get  more  limelight  and  more  money  on  the 
lecture  platform.  But  you've  been  a  flivver  in  the  big 
time.  Your  message  sounds  better  to  a  flock  of  women 
in  somebody's  sitting  room  full  of  shaded  candles  and 
samovars,  with  firelight  on  the  antique  junk,  than  it 
does  in  Carnegie  Hall.  You've  got  the  voice  for  the 
big  spaces  all  right,  but  the  multitude  doesn't  get  any 
loaves  and  fishes  from  you.  Punk  sticks  and  nuances 


24  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

— the  intime  stuff — that's  your  speed,  Ferdy.  I  don't 
want  to  put  any  useless  dents  into  your  bean,  but  that 
message  of  yours  has  been  hinted  at  by  other  messengers. 
I  stick  around  home  here  and  take  care  of  the  kids, 
and  I've  never  let  out  a  yell  before.  And  you  trot 
around  to  your  soul  fights  and  tea  fests  and  feed  your 
message  to  a  bunch  of  dolled-up  dames  that  don't  even 
know  you  have  a  wife.  I'm  not  jealous  .  .  .  you 
couldn't  drag  me  into  one  of  those  perfumed  literary 
dives  by  the  hair  .  .  „  I  got  fed  up  with  that  stuff 
years  ago.  But  as  long  as  we're  without  a  maid  because 
you  won't  stick  to  a  steady  job,  you'll  do  your  share 
of  the  rough  stuff  around  the  house.  I'll  say  you  will! 
You  used  to  be  a  good  sport  about  that  sort  of  thing, 
Ferdy,  but  it  looks  to  me  as  if  you  were  getting  spoiled 
rotten.  You've  had  a  rush  of  soul  to  the  mouth,  Ferdy. 
Those  talcum-powder  seances  of  yours  have  gone  to 
your  head.  You  take  those  orgies  of  refinement  too 
seriously.  You  begin  to  look  to  me  like  you  had  a 
streak  of  yellow  in  you,  Ferdy  .  .  .  and  if  I  ever 
see  it  so  plain  I'm  sure  of  it,  I'll  leave  you  flat.  I'll 
quit  you,  Ferdy,  twins  and  all." 

"Quit,  then!"  cried  Mr.  Wimple. 

And  then  the  harplike  voice  burst  into  song  again, 
an  offering  rich  with  rage: 

"Woman! 

So  help  me  all  the  gods, 

I'm  through! 

Twins  or  no  twins, 


"IF  WE  COULD  ONLY  SEE"  25 

Elinor  Wimple, 

I'm  through! 

By  all  the  gods, 

I'll  never  wash  another  dish, 

Nor  yet  another  set  of  underwear!" 

And  Mr.  Wimple,  in  his  heat,  brought  down  the 
wooden  paddle  upon  the  pile  of  dishes  in  the  sink,  in 
front  of  his  wife.  The  crash  of  the  broken  china  seemed 
to  augment  his  rage,  rather  than  relieve  it,  and  he  raised 
the  paddle  for  a  second  blow. 

"Ferd!"  cried  his  wife,  and  caught  at  the  stick. 

Mr.  Wimple,  the  aesthete,  grabbed  her  by  the  arm 
and  strove  to  loosen  her  grasp  upon  the  paddle. 

"You're  bruising  my  arm!"  she  cried.  But  she  did 
not  release  the  stick.  Neither  did  Ferdinand  release 
her  wrist.  Perhaps  he  twisted  it  all  the  harder  be 
cause  she  struggled,  and  was  not  conscious  that  he 
was  doing  so  ...  perhaps  he  twisted  it  harder 
quite  consciously.  At  any  rate,  she  suddenly  swung 
upon  him,  with  her  free  hand,  and  slapped  him  across 
the  face  with  her  wet  dishcloth. 

At  that  they  started  apart,  both  more  than  a  little 
appalled  to  realize  that  they  had  been  engaged  in  some 
thing  resembling  a  fight. 

Without  another  word  the  bird  of  song  withdrew  to 
smooth  his  ruffled  plumage.  He  dressed  himself  care 
fully,  and  left  the  apartment  without  speaking  to  his 
wife  again.  He  felt  that  he  had  not  had  altogether 
the  best  of  the  argument.  There  was  no  taste  of  soap 


26  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

in  his  mouth,  for  he  had  washed  his  lips  and  even 
brushed  his  teeth  .  .  .  and  yet,  psychically,  as  he 
might  have  said  himself,  he  still  tasted  that  dishcloth. 
But  he  had  not  walked  far  before  some  of  his  com 
placence  returned.  He  removed  his  hat  and  ran  his 
fingers  through  his  interesting  hair,  and  began  to  mur 
mur  lyrically : 

"By  Jove! 

I  have  a  way  with  women! 

There  must  be  something  of  the  Cave  Man  in  me 

Yes,  something  of  the  primeval!" 

In  his  pocket  was  a  little  book  of  his  own  poems, 
bound  in  green  and  gold.  As  he  had  remarked  to  Mrs. 
Wimple,  he  was  to  deliver  his  message  that  afternoon. 

Ill 

Mrs.  Watson's  apartment  (to  which  Ferdinand  be 
took  himself  after  idling  a  couple  of  hours  at  his  club) 
was  toward  the  top  of  a  tall  building  which  overlooked 
great  fields  of  city.  It  was  but  three  blocks  distant 
from  Ferdinand's  own  humbler  apartment,  in  uptown 
New  York,  but  it  was  large,  and  .  .  .  well,  Mr. 
Wimple  calculated,  harbouring  the  sordid  thought  for 
an  instant,  that  the  rent  must  cost  her  seven  or  eight, 
thousand  dollars  a  year. 

Mrs.  Watson's  life  was  delicately  scented  with  an 
attar  of  expense.  She  would  not  drench  her  rooms  or 
her  existence  with  wealth,  any  more  than  she  would 


"IF  WE  COULD  ONLY  SEE"  27 

spill  perfume  upon  her  garments  with  a  careless  hand. 
But  the  sensitive  nostrils  of  the  aesthetic  Mr.  Wimple 
quivered  in  reaction  to  the  aroma.  For  a  person  who 
despised  gold,  as  Mr.  Wimple  professed  to  despise  it, 
he  was  strangely  unrepelled.  Perhaps  he  thought  it 
to  be  his  spiritual  duty  to  purify  this  atmosphere  with 
his  message. 

There  were  eighteen  or  twenty  women  there  when 
Ferdinand  arrived,  and  no  man  .  .  .  except  a  weak- 
eyed  captive  husband  or  two,  and  an  epicene  creature 
with  a  violin,  if  you  want  to  call  them  men.  Ferdinand, 
with  his  bovine  body  and  his  leonine  head,  seemed  al 
most  startlingly  masculine  in  this  assemblage,  and  felt 
so.  His  spirit,  he  had  often  confessed,  was  an  instru 
ment  that  vibrated  best  in  unison  with  the  subtle  femi 
nine  soul;. he  felt  it  play  upon  him  and  woo  him,  with 
little  winds  that  ran  their  fingers  through  his  hair. 
These  were  women  who  had  no  occupation,  and  a  num 
ber  of  them  had  money;  they  felt  delightfully  cultivated 
when  persons  such  as  Ferdinand  talked  to  them  about 
the  Soul.  They  warmed,  they  expanded,  half  uncon 
sciously  they  projected  those  breaths  and  breezes  which 
thrilled  our  Ferdinand  and  wrought  upon  his  mood.  If 
a  woman,  idle  and  mature,  cannot  find  romance  any 
where  else  or  anyhow  other  she  will  pick  upon  a  preach 
er  or  an  artist. 

Mrs.  Watson  collected  Ferdinands.  Just  how  seri 
ously  she  took  them — how  she  regarded  himself,  spe 
cifically — Mr.  Wimple  could  not  be  quite  certain. 

"She  is  a  woman  of  mystery,"  Mr.  Wimple  often 


28  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

murmured  to  himself.  And  he  wondered  a  good  deal 
about  her  .  .  .  sometimes  he  wondered  if  she  were 
not  in  love  with  him. 

He  had  once  written  to  her  a  poem,  which  he  en 
titled  "Mystery."  She  had  let  him  see  that  she  under 
stood  it,  but  she  had  not  vouchsafed  a  solution  of  her 
self.  It  might  be  possible,  Ferdinand  thought,  that  she 
did  not  love  him  .'>-..  but  she  sympathized  with 
him;  she  appreciated  him;  she  had  even  fallen  into  a 
dreamy  sadness  one  day,  at  the  thought  of  how  he  must 
suffer  from  the  disharmony  in  his  home.  For  somehow, 
without  much  having  been  said  by  one  or  by  the  other, 
the  knowledge  had  passed  from  Ferdinand  to  Mrs. 
Watson  that  there  was  not  harmony  in  his  home.  She 
had  understood.  They  had  looked  at  each  other,  and 
she  had  understood. 

"Alethea!"  he  had  murmured,  under  his  breath. 
Alethea  was  her  name.  He  was  sure  she  had  heard  it; 
but  she  had  neither  accepted  it  from  him,  nor  rejected 
it.  And  he  had  gone  away  without  quite  daring  to  say 
it  again  in  a  louder  tone. 

There  was  only  one  thing  about  her  that  sometimes 
jarred  upon  Mr.  Wimple  ...  a  sudden  vein  of 
levity.  Sometimes  Ferdinand,  in  his  thoughts,  even 
accused  her  of  irony.  And  he  was  vaguely  distrustful 
of  a  sense  of  the  humorous  in  women;  whether  it  took 
the  form  of  a  feeling  for  nonsense  or  a  talent  for  sar 
casm,  it  worried  him. 

But  she  understood.  She  always  understood  .  .  . 
him  and  his  message. 


"IF  WE  COULD  ONLY  SEE"  29 

And  this  afternoon  she  seemed  to  be  understanding 
him,  to  be  absorbing  him  and  his  message,  with  an  in 
creased  sensitiveness.  She  regarded  him  with  a  new 
intentness,  he  thought;  she  was  taking  him  with  an 
expanded  spiritual  capacity. 

It  was  after  the  music,  and  what  a  creature  overladen 
with  "art  jewelry"  called  "the  eats/'  harrowing  Fer 
dinand  with  the  vulgar  word,  that  he  delivered  his  mes 
sage,  sitting  not  far  from  Mrs.  Watson  in  the  carefully 
graduated  light. 

It  was,  upon  the  whole,  a  cheerful  message,  Ferdi 
nand's.  It  was  .  .  .  succinctly  .  .  .  Love. 
Ferdinand  was  not  pessimistic  or  cynical  about  Love. 
It  was  all  around  us,  he  thought,  if  we  could  only  see 
it,  could  only  feel  it,  could  only  open  our  beings  for  its 
reception. 

"If  we  could  only  see  into  the  hearts!  If  we  could 
only  see  into  the  homes!"  said  Ferdinand.  If  we  could 
only  see,  it  was  Ferdinand's  belief,  we  should  see  Love 
there,  unexpected  treasures  of  Love,  waiting  dormant 
for  the  arousing  touch;  slumbering,  as  Endymion  slum 
bered,  until  Diana's  kiss  awakened  him. 

"Mush!"  muttered  one  of  the  captive  husbands  to  the 
young  violinist.  But  the  young  violinist  scowled;  he 
was  in  accord  with  Ferdinand.  "Mush,  slush,  and 
gush!"  whispered  the  first  captive  husband  to  the  sec 
ond  captive  husband.  But  captive  husband  number 
two  only  nodded  and  grinned  in  an  idiotic  way;  he  was 
lucky  enough  to  be  quite  deaf,  and  no  matter  where 
his  wife  took  him  he  could  sit  and  think  of  his  Lib- 


30  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

erty  Bonds,  without  being  bothered  by  the  lion  of  the 
hour.  .  .  . 

The  world,  Ferdinand  went  on,  was  trembling  on  the 
verge  of  a  great  spiritual  awakening.  The  Millennium 
was  about  to  stoop  and  kiss  it,  as  Morning  kissed  the 
mountain  tops.  It  was  coming  soon.  Already  the  first 
faint  streaks  of  the  new  dawn  were  in  the  orient  sky 
.  .  .  for  eyes  that  could  see  them.  Ah,  if  one  could 
only  see!  In  more  and  more  bosoms,  the  world  around, 
Love  was  becoming  conscious  of  itself,  Love  was  begin 
ning  to  understand  that  there  was  love  in  other  bosoms, 
too!  At  this  point,  at  least  a  dozen  bosoms,  among 
those  bosoms  present,  heaved  with  sighs.  Heart  was 
reaching  out  to  Heart  in  a  new  confidence,  Ferdinand 
said.  One  knew  what  was  in  one's  own  heart;  but 
hitherto  one  had  often  been  so  blind  that  one  did  not 
realize  that  the  same  thing  was  in  the  hearts  of  one's 
fellows.  Ah,  if  one  could  only  see! 

Maeterlinck  saw,  Ferdinand  said. 

"Ah,  Maeterlinck!"  whispered  the  bosoms. 

Yes,  Maeterlinck  saw,  said  Ferdinand.  Nietzsche, 
said  Ferdinand,  had  possessed  a  bosom  full  of  yearning 
for  all  humanity,  but  he  had  been  driven  back  upon 
himself  and  embittered  by  the  world  ...  by  the 
German  world  in  which  he  lived,  said  Ferdinand.  So 
Nietzsche's  strength  had  little  sweetness  in  it,  and 
Nietzsche  had  not  lived  to  see  the  new  light  in  the  orient 
sky. 

"Ah,  Nietzsche!"  moaned  several  sympathetic 
bosoms. 


"IF  WE  COULD  ONLY  SEE"  31 

Bergson  knew,  Ferdinand  opined.  Several  of  the 
women  present  did  not  quite  catch  the  connection  be 
tween  Bergson  and  Ferdinand's  message,  but  they  as 
sumed  that  everyone  else  caught  it.  Bergson's  was  a 
name  they  knew  and  .  .  .  and  in  a  moment  Ferdi 
nand  was  on  more  familiar  ground  again.  Tagore 
knew,  said  Ferdinand. 

"Ah,  Rabindranath  Tagore!"  And  the  bosoms  flut 
tered  as  doves  flutter  when  they  coo  and  settle  upon  the 
eaves.  Love!  That  was  Ferdinand's  message.  And 
it  appeared  from  the  remarks  with  which  he  introduced 
and  interspersed  his  own  poems,  that  all  the  really 
brilliant  men  of  the  day  were  thinking  in  harmony 
with  Ferdinand.  He  had  the  gift  of  introducing  a  cele 
brated  name  every  now  and  then  in  such  a  manner  that 
these  women,  who  were  at  least  familiar  with  the  names, 
actually  felt  that  they  were  also  familiar  with  the  work 
for  which  the  names  stood.  And,  for  his  part,  he  was 
repaid,  this  afternoon,  as  he  had  never  been  repaid  be 
fore  .  .  .  never  before  had  he  been  so  wrought 
upon  and  electrically  vivified  as  to-day  by  these  ema 
nations  of  the  feminine  soul;  never  before  had  he  felt 
these  little  winds  run  their  fingers  through  his  hair  with 
such  a  caressing  touch.  Once  or  twice  the  poignancy  of 
the  sensation  almost  unsteadied  him  for  an  instant. 
And  never  before  had  Mrs.  Watson  regarded  him  with 
such  singular  intentness. 

Love!  That  was  Ferdinand's  message!  And,  ah!  if 
one  could  only  see! 

When  the  others  were  going,  Mrs.  Watson  asked  him 


32  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

to  stay  a  while,  and  Ferdinand  stayed.  She  led  him  to 
a  little  sitting  room,  high  above  the  town,  and  stood  by 
the  window.  And  he  stood  beside  her. 

"Your  message  this  afternoon/'  she  said,  presently, 
"I  enjoyed  more  than  anything  I  have  ever  heard  you 
say  before.  If  we  could  only  see!  If  we  could  only 
see!" 

Mrs.  Watson  lifted  her  blue  eyes  to  him  .  .  . 
and  for  an  instant  Ferdinand  felt  that  she  was  more  the 
woman  of  mystery  than  ever.  For  there  lurked  within 
the  eyes  an  equivocal  ripple  of  light;  an  unsteady  glint 
that  came  and  went.  Had  it  not  been  for  her  words, 
Ferdinand  might  have  feared  that  she  was  about  to 
break  into  one  of  her  disconcerting  ebullitions  of  levity. 
But  he  perceived  in  her,  at  the  same  time,  a  certain 
tension,  an  unusual  strain,  and  was  reassured  .  .  . 
she  was  a  little  strange,  perhaps,  because  of  his  near 
presence.  She  was  reacting  to  the  magnetism  which 
was  flowing  out  of  him  in  great  waves,  and  she  was 
striving  to  conceal  from  him  her  psychic  excitement. 
That  would  account  for  any  strangeness  in  her  manner, 
any  constraint. 

"If  we  could  only  see!"  she  repeated. 

"  You  always  see/'  hazarded  Ferdinand. 

"I  sometimes  see/'  said  Mrs.  Watson.  "I  have  some 
times  seen  more  than  it  was  intended  for  me  to  see." 

What  could  she  mean  by  that?  Ferdinand  asked 
himself.  And  for  an  instant  he  was  unpleasantly  con 
scious  again  of  the  something  ambiguous  in  her  mood. 
Suddenly  she  turned  and  switched  on  the  electric  light 


"IF  WE  COULD  ONLY  SEE"  33 

in  the  room,  and  then  went  and  stood  by  the  window 
again.  Ferdinand's  psychic  feathers  were  a  trifle 
rumpled  by  the  action.  It  was  growing  dusk  .  .  . 
but  he  would  have  liked  to  talk  to  her  in  the  twilight, 
looking  out  over  the  roofs. 

"If  we  could  only  see  into  the  hearts  .  .  .  into 
the  homes/'  she  mused  yet  again. 

"If  you  could  see  into  my  heart  now  .  .  .  Ale- 
thea  .  .  ." 

He  left  the  sentence  unfinished.  She  did  not  look  at 
him.  She  turned  her  face  so  he  could  not  see  it. 

He  tried  to  take  her  hand.  But  she  avoided  that, 
without  actually  moving,  without  giving  ground 
.  .  .  as  a  boxer  in  the  ring  may  escape  the  full  effect 
of  a  blow  he  does  not  parry  by  shrugging  it  off,  with 
out  retreating. 

After  a  moment's  silence  she  said :  "Ferdinand  .  .  ." 
and  paused.  .  .  . 

He  felt  sure  of  her,  then.  He  drew  a  long  breath. 
He  wished  they  were  not  standing  by  that  window, 
framed  in  it,  with  the  lighted  room  behind  them  .  .  . 
but  since  she  would  stand  there  .  .  .  anyhow,  now 
was  the  time.  .  .  . 

And  then  he  heard  himself  pleading  with  her,  elo 
quently,  fervently.  She  was  his  ideal!  She  was 
.  .  .  he  hated  the  word  "affinity,"  because  it  had 
been  cheapened  and  vulgarized  by  gross  contacts 
.  .  .  but  she  was  his  affinity.  They  were  made  for 
one  another.  It  was  predestined  that  they  should  meet 
and  love.  She  was  what  he  needed  to  complete  him,  to 


34     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

fulfill  him.  They  would  go  forth  together  .  .  .  not 
into  the  world,  but  away  from  it  ...  they  would 
dwell  upon  the  heights,  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 
so  forth. 

Ferdinand,  as  he  pleaded,  perhaps  thought  nothing 
consciously  of  the  fact  that  she  must  be  spending  money 
at  the  rate  of  fifty  or  sixty  thousand  dollars  a  year. 
But,  nevertheless,  that  subconscious  mind  of  his,  of 
which  he  had  so  often  spoken,  that  subliminal  self, 
must  have  been  considering  the  figures,  for  suddenly 
there  flashed  before  his  inner  eye  the  result  of  a  mathe 
matical  calculation  .  . -.'.  fifty  thousand  dollars  a 
year  is  the  interest  on  one  million  dollars  at  five  per 
cent.  Ah,  that  would  make  his  dreams  possible!  How 
his  service  to  the  human  race  might  be  increased  in 
value  if  all  his  time  could  be  but  given  to  carrying  his 
message!  Farewell  to  the  sordid  struggle  for  bread! 
And  in  the  poetic  depths  of  him  there  moved,  unuttered, 
a  phrase  which  he  had  spoken  aloud  earlier  in  the  day: 
"/  shall  never  wash  another  dish,  nor  yet  another  un 
dergarment."  This  secondary  line  of  thought,  however, 
did  not  interfere  with  the  lyric  passion  of  his  speech. 

"You  are  asking  me  to  ...  to  ...  elope 
with  you!" 

She  still  drooped  her  head,  but  she  let  him  feel  her 
nearness.  He  wished — how  he  wished! — that  they 
were  away  from  that  window.  But  he  would  not  break 
the  spell  by  suggesting  that  they  move.  Perhaps  he 
could  not  reestablish  it. 

"Elope?"     Ferdinand  critically  considered  the  word. 


"IF  WE  COULD  ONLY  SEE"  35 

"I  want  you  to  come  away  with  me,  Alethea,  into  Para 
dise.  I  want  you  to  help  me  rediscover  Eden !  I  want 
you!  I  want  you!" 

"But    .     .     .    your  family?"  she  murmured. 

He  had  her  hand  again,  and  this  time  she  let  him 
keep  it.  'That  episode,  that  unfortunate  and  foolish 
episode,  my  marriage,  is  ended,"  said  Ferdinand,  as  he 
kissed  her  hand. 

"Ah!  Ended?"  said  Mrs.  Watson.  "You  are  no 
longer  living  with  your  wife?  The  marriage  is  dis 
solved?"  Mrs.  Watson's  own  marriage  had  been  dis 
solved  for  some  time;  whether  by  death  or  by  divorce 
Ferdinand  had  never  taken  the  trouble  to  inquire. 

"In  the  spiritual  sense — and  that  is  all  that  counts — 
dissolved,"  said  Ferdinand.  And  he  could  not  help 
adding:  "To-day." 

Mrs.  Watson  was  breathing  quickly  .  .  .  and 
suddenly  she  turned  and  put  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 
And  yet  even  as  Ferdinand's  mind  cried  "Victory!"  he 
was  aware  of  a  strange  doubt;  for  when  he  attempted  to 
take  her  in  his  arms,  she  put  up  her  hands  and  prevented 
a  real  embrace.  He  stood  in  perplexity.  He  felt  that 
she  was  shaking  with  emotion;  he  heard  muffled  sounds 
.  .  .  she  was  sobbing  and  weeping  on  his  shoulder, 
or  ... 

No!  It  could  not  be!  Yes,  the  woman  was  laugh 
ing!  Joy?  Hysteria?  What? 

Suddenly  she  pushed  him  away  from  her,  and  faced 
him,  controlling  her  laughter. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Mrs.  Watson,  with  the  levity  he 


36     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

had  feared  dancing  in  her  eyes,  "but  such  a  silly  idea 
occurred  to  me  just  as  I  was  about  to  tell  you  that 
I  would  elope  with  you  ...  it  occurred  to  me  that 
I  had  better  tell  you  that  all  my  money  is  tied  up  in  a 
trust  fund.  I  can  never  touch  anything  but  the  in 
terest,  you  know." 

"Alethea,"  said  Ferdinand,  chokingly,  "such  a 
thought  at  a  time  like  this  is  unworthy  of  both  of  us!" 
And  he  advanced  toward  her  again.  But  she  stopped 
him. 

"Just  a  moment,  Ferdinand!  I  haven't  told  you  all 
of  my  silly  idea!  I  wondered  also,  you  know,  whether, 
if  we  ever  got  hard  up  and  had  to  do  our  own  work, 
you  would  break  my  dishes  with  a  wooden  stick  and 
twist  my  arm  until  I  howled!" 

As  Ferdinand  slowly  took  in  her  words,  he  felt  a 
sudden  recession  of  vitality.  He  said  nothing,  but  his 
knees  felt  weak,  and  he  sat  down  on  a  chair. 

"Get  up!"  said  Mrs.  Watson,  with  a  cold  little  silver 
tinkle  of  a  laugh.  "I  didn't  ask  you  to  sit  down!" 

Ferdinand  got  up. 

"I  don't  spy  on  my  neighbours  as  a  rule,"  continued 
Mrs.  Watson,  "but  a  little  after  noon  to-day  I  happened 
to  be  standing  by  this  window  looking  out  over  the 
town,  and  this  pair  of  opera  glasses  happened  to  be  on 
the  table  there  and  .  .  .  well,  take  them,  you  oaf! 
You  fat  fool!  And  look  at  that  window,  down  there! 
It's  your  own  kitchen  window!" 

Ferdinand  took  them  and  looked  ...  he  was 
crushed  and  speechless,  and  he  obeyed  mechanically. 


"IF  WE  COULD  ONLY  SEE"  37 

He  dropped  the  glasses  with  a  gasp.  He  had  not  only 
seen  into  his  own  kitchen  window,  lighted  as  this  one 
was,  but  he  had  seen  Nell  there  .  .  .  and,  as  per 
verse  fate  would  have  it,  some  whim  had  inspired  Nell 
to  take  her  own  opera  glasses  and  look  out  over  the 
city.  She  was  standing  there  with  them  now.  Had 
she  seen  him  a  moment  before,  with  Mrs.  Watson's 
head  upon  his  shoulder? 

He  started  out. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  Mrs.  Watson.  Ferdinand 
stopped.  He  still  seemed  oddly  without  volition.  It 
reminded  him  of  what  he  had  heard  about  certain  men 
suffering  from  shell  shock. 

"There  ...  I  wanted  to  do  that  before  you 
went,"  said  Mrs.  Watson,  and  slapped  him  across  the 
face.  And  Ferdinand's  soul  registered  once  more  the 
flavour  of  a  damp  dishcloth.  "It's  the  second  time  a 
woman  has  slapped  you  to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Watson. 
"Try  and  finish  the  rest  of  the  day  without  getting  a 
third  one.  You  can  go  now." 

Ferdinand  went.  He  reached  the  street,  and  walked 
several  blocks  in  silence.  Neither  his  voice  nor  his  as 
surance  seemed  to  be  inclined  to  return  to  him  speedily. 
His  voice  came  back  first,  with  a  little  of  his  compla 
cence,  after  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes.  And: 

"Hell!"  said  Ferdinand,  in  his  rich,  harplike  voice, 
running  his  fingers  through  his  tawny  hair.  "Hell!" 


HOW  HANK  SIGNED  THE  PLEDGE 

AUTHOR'S  NOTE— Another  version   of  this   story  appeared  in   a  book  entitled 
"Danny's  Own  Story,"  published  in   1912  by  Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 

I'M  NOT  so  sure  about  Prohibition  and  pledges  and 
such  things  holding  back  a  man  that  has  got  the  liquor 
idea  in  his  head.  If  meanness  is  in  a  man,  it  usually 
stays  in  him,  in  spite  of  all  the  pledges  he  signs  and 
the  promises  he  makes. 

About  the  meanest  man  I  ever  knew  was  Hank 
Walters,  a  blacksmith  in  a  little  town  in  Illinois,  the 
meanest  and  the  whiskey-drinkingest.  And  I  had  a 
chance  to  know  him  well,  for  he  and  his  wife  Elmira 
brought  me  up.  Somebody  left  me  on  their  doorstep  in 
a  basket  when  I  was  a  baby,  and  they  took  me  in  and 
raised  me.  I  reckon  they  took  me  in  so  they  could 
quarrel  about  me.  They'd  lived  together  a  good  many 
years  and  quarrelled  about  everything  else  under  the 
sun,  and  were  running  out  of  topics  to  row  over.  A 
new  topic  of  dissension  sort  of  briskened  things  up  for  a 
while. 

Not  having  any  kids  of  his  own  to  lick,  Hank  lam 
basted  me  when  he  was  drunk  and  whaled  me  when  he 
was  sober.  It  was  a  change  from  licking  his  wife,  I 
suppose.  A  man  like  Hank  has  just  naturally  got  to 
have  something  he  can  cuss  around  and  boss,  so  as  to 

38 


HOW  HANK  SIGNED  THE  PLEDGE        39 

keep  himself  from  finding  out  he  don't  amount  to  any 
thing  .  .  .  although  he  must  have  known  he 
didn't,  too,  way  down  deep  in  his  inmost  gizzards. 

So  I  was  unhappy  when  I  was  a  kid,  but  not  knowing 
anything  else  I  never  found  out  exactly  how  unhappy 
I  was.  There  were  worse  places  to  live  in  than  that 
little  town,  and  there  was  one  thing  in  our  house  that 
I  always  admired  when  I  was  a  kid.  That  was  a  big 
cistern.  Most  people  had  their  cisterns  outside  their 
houses,  but  ours  was  right  in  under  our  kitchen  floor, 
and  there  was  a  trap  door  with  leather  hinges  opened 
into  it  right  by  the  kitchen  stove.  But  that  wasn't  why 
I  was  so  proud  of  it.  It  was  because  the  cistern  was 
full  of  fish — bullheads  and  redhorse  and  sunfish  and 
pickerel. 

Hank's  father  built  the  cistern.  And  one  time  he 
brought  home  some  live  fish  in  a  bucket  and  dumped 
them  in  there.  And  they  grew.  And  multiplied  and 
refurnished  the  earth,  as  the  Good  Book  says.  That 
cistern  full  of  fish  had  got  to  be  a  family  custom. 
It  was  a  comfort  to  Hank,  for  all  the  Walterses  were 
great  fish  eaters,  though  it  never  went  to  brains  any. 
We  fed  'em  now  and  then,  and  threw  the  little  ones  back 
in  until  they  were  grown,  and  kept  the  dead  ones  picked 
out  as  soon  as  we  smelled  anything  wrong,  and  it  never 
hurt  the  water  any;  and  when  I  was  a  kid  I  wouldn't 
have  taken  anything  for  living  in  a  house  like  that. 

One  time  when  I  was  a  kid  about  six  years  old  Hank 
came  home  drunk  from  Bill  Nolan's  barroom,  and  got 
to1  chasing  Elmira's  cat,  because  he  said  it  was  making 


40     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

faces  at  him.  The  cistern  door  was  open,  and  Hank 
fell  in.  Elmira  wasn't  at  home,  and  I  was  scared. 
Elmira  had  always  told  me  not  to  fool  around  that 
cistern  door  any  when  I  was  a  kid,  for  if  I  fell  in  there, 
she  said,  I'd  be  a  corpse,  quicker'n  scatt. 

So  when  Hank  fell  in  and  I  heard  him  splash,  being 
such  a  little  fellow  and  awful  scared  because  Elmira 
had  always  made  it  so  strong,  I  supposed  that  Hank  was 
probably  a  corpse  already.  I  slammed  the  door  shut 
over  the  cistern  without  looking  in,  for  I  heard  Hank 
flopping  around  down  there.  I  hadn't  ever  heard  a 
corpse  flop  before  and  didn't  know  but  what  it  might 
be  somehow  injurious  to  me,  and  I  wasn't  going  to  take 
any  chances. 

I  went  out  and  played  in  the  front  yard  and  waited 
for  Elmira.  But  1  couldn't  seem  to  get  my  mind  settled 
on  playing  I  was  a  horse,  or  anything.  I  kept  think 
ing  of  Hank  being  a  corpse  down  in  that  cistern.  And 
maybe  that  corpse  is  going  to  come  flopping  out  pretty 
soon,  I  thought  to  myself,  and  lick  me  in  some  new 
and  unusual  way.  I  hadn't  ever  been  licked  by  a 
corpse.  Being  young  and  innocent,  I  didn't  rightly 
know  what  a  corpse  is,  except  I  had  the  idea  there  was 
something  about  a  corpse  that  kept  them  from  being 
popular. 

So  after  a  while  I  sneaked  back  into  the  house  and  set 
all  the  flatirons  on  top  of  the  cistern  lid.  I  heard  some 
flopping  and  splashing  and  fluttering,  as  if  that  corpse 
was  trying  to  jump  up  and  was  falling  back  into  the 
water,  and  I  heard  Hank's  voice,  and  got  scareder  and 


HOW  HANK  SIGNED  THE  PLEDGE       41 


scareder.  When  Elmira  came  along  down  the  road  she 
saw  me  by  the  gate  crying  and  blubbering,  and  she 
asked  me  why. 

"Hank1  is  a  corpse!"  says  I. 

"A  corpse!"  says  Elmira,  dropping  the  pound  of 
coffee  she  was  carrying  home  from  the  general  store 
and  post-office.  "Danny,  what  do  you  mean?" 

I  saw  then  I  was  to  blame  somehow,  and  I  wished  I 
hadn't  said  anything  about  Hank  being  a  corpse.  And 
I  made  up  my  mind  I  wouldn't  say  anything  more.  So 
when  she  grabbed  hold  of  me  and  asked  me  again  what 
I  meant  I  blubbered  harder,  as  a  kid  will,  and  said 
nothing.  I  wished  I  hadn't  set  those  flatirons  on  the 
cistern  lid,  for  it  came  to  me  all  at  once  that  even  if 
Hank  had  turned  into  a  corpse  I  hadn't  any  right  to 
keep  him  in  the  cistern. 

Just  then  old  Mis'  Rogers,  one  of  our  neighbours, 
came  by,  while  Elmira  was  shaking  me  and  yelling  at 
me  and  asking  how  it  happened,  and  had  I  seen  it,  and 
where  was  Hank's  corpse. 

"What's  Danny  been  doing  now?"  asked  Mis'  Rogers 
— me  being  always  up  to  something. 

Elmira  turned  and  saw  her  and  gave  a  whoop  and 
hollered  out:  "Hank  is  dead!"  And  she  threw  her 
apron  over  her  head  and  sat  right  down  in  the  path  and 
boo-hooed  like  a  baby.  And  1  bellered  and  howled  all 
the  louder. 

Mis'  Rogers,  she  never  waited  to  ask  anything  more. 
She  saw  she  had  a  piece  of  news,  and  she  wanted  to  be 
the  first  to  spread  it.  She  ran  right  across  the  road  to 


42  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

where  the  Alexanderses  lived.  Mis'  Alexander,  she  saw 
her  coming  and  unhooked  the  screen  door  and  Mis' 
Rogers  hollered  out  before  she  reached  the  porch: 
"Hank  Walters  is  dead!" 

And  then  she  went  footing  it  up  the  street.  There 
was  a  black  plume  on  her  bonnet,  nodding  the  same  as 
on  a  hearse,  and  she  was  into  and  out  of  seven  front 
yards  in  less  than  five  minutes. 

Mis'  Alexander  she  ran  across  the  road  to  where  we 
were,  and  kneeled  down  and  put  her  arm  around 
Elmira,  who  was  still  rocking  back  and  forth  in  the 
path,  and  she  said: 

"How  do  you  know  he's  dead,  Elmira?  I  saw  him 
not  more  than  an  hour  ago." 

"Danny  saw  it  all,"  says  Elmira. 

Mis'  Alexander  turned  to  me  and  wanted  to  know 
what  happened  and  how  it  happened  and  where  it  hap 
pened.  But  1  didn't  want  to  say  anything  about  that 
cistern.  So  I  busted  out  crying  all  over  again  and  I 
said:  "He  was  drunk  and  he  came  home  drunk  and  he 
did  it  then,  and  that's  how  he  did  it." 

"And  you  saw  him?"  she  asked. 

I  nodded. 

"Where  is  he?"  says  she  and  Elmira,  both  together. 

But  I  was  scared  to  say  anything  about  that  cistern, 
so  I  just  bawled  some  more. 

"Was  it  in  the  blacksmith  shop?"  asks  Mis'  Alex 
ander. 

I  nodded  my  head  again,  and  let  it  go  at  that. 

"Is  he  in  there  now?"  she  wants  to  know. 


HOW  HANK  SIGNED  THE  PLEDGE       43 

I  nodded  again.  I  hadn't  meant  to  give  out  any  un 
true  stories.  But  a  kid  will  always  lie,  not  meaning 
particular  to  lie,  if  you  sort  of  invite  him  with  ques 
tions  like  that,  and  get  him  scared  by  the  way  you're 
acting.  Besides,  I  says  to  myself,  so  long  as  Hank  has 
turned  into  a  corpse,  and  being  a  corpse  makes  him 
dead,  what's  the  difference  whether  he's  in  the  black 
smith  shop  or  in  the  cistern?  I  hadn't  had  any  plain 
idea  before  that  being  a  corpse  meant  the  same  thing  as 
being  dead.  And  I  wasn't  any  too  sure  what  being 
dead  was  like,  either.  Except  I  knew  they  had  funerals 
over  you  then.  I  knew  being  a  corpse  must  be  a  dis 
advantage  from  the  way  that  Elmira  has  always  said 
to  keep  away  from  that  cistern,  or  I'd  be  one.  And 
I  began  to  see  the  whole  thing  was  more  important  even 
than  I  had  figured  it  was  at  first.  I  wondered  if  there'd 
be  a  funeral  at  our  house.  If  there  was  one,  that  would 
be  fine.  They  didn't  have  them  every  day  in  our  town, 
and  we  hadn't  ever  had  one  of  our  own. 

Mis'  Alexander,  she  led  Elmira  into  the  house,  both 
a-crying,  and  Mis'  Alexander  trying  to  comfort  her,  and 
me  a-tagging  along  behind  holding  on  to  Elmira's  skirts 
and  sniffling  into  them.  And  in  a  few  minutes  all 
those  women  that  Mis'  Rogers  had  told  came  filing 
into  the  house,  one  at  a  time,  looking  sad  and  mourn 
ful.  Only  old  Mis'  Primrose,  she  was  a  little  late  get 
ting  there,  because  she  stopped  to  put  on  the  dress  she 
always  wore  to  funerals,  with  the  black  Paris  lace  on  to 
it  that  her  cousin  Arminty  White  had  sent  her  from 
Chicago. 


44     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

When  they  found  out  that  Hank  had  come  home  with 
liquor  in  him  and  done  it  himself  they  were  all  excited 
and  they  all  crowded  around  and  asked  me  questions, 
except  two  that  were  holding  Elmira's  hands  where  she 
sat  moaning  in  a  chair.  And  those  questions  scared 
me  and  egged  me  on  to  lies  I  hadn't  had  any  idea  of 
telling. 

Says  one  woman:  "Danny,  you  saw  him  do  it  in 
the  blacksmith  shop?" 

I  nodded. 

"But  how  did  he  get  in?"  says  another  one.  "The  door 
was  locked  on  the  outside  with  a  padlock  just  now 
when  I  came  by.  He  couldn't  have  killed  himself  in 
there  and  then  locked  the  door  on  the  outside." 

I  didn't  see  how  he  could  have  done  that  myself,  so 
I  began  to  bawl  again  and  said  nothing  at  all. 

"He  must  have  crawled  into  the  shop  through  that 
little  side  window,"  says  Mis'  Primrose.  "That  win 
dow  was  open  when  I  came  by,  even  if  the  door  was 
locked.  Did  you  see  him  crawl  through  the  little 
side  window,  Danny?" 

I  nodded.  There  wasn't  anything  else  I  could  think 
of  to  do. 

"But  you  aren't  tall  enough  to  look  through  that 
window,"  sings  out  Mis'  Rogers.  "How  could  you  see 
into  the  shop,  Danny?" 

I  didn't  know,  so  I  didn't  say  anything  at  all;  I  just 
sniffled. 

"There's  a  store  box  right  in  under  the  window," 
says  another  one.  "Danny  must  have  climbed  on  to 


HOW  HANK  SIGNED  THE  PLEDGE        45 

that  store  box  and  looked  in  after  he  saw  Hank  crawl 
through  the  window.  Did  you  scramble  on  to  the  store 
box  and  look  in,  Danny?" 

I  just  nodded  again. 

"And  what  was  it  you  saw  him  do?  How  did  he 
kill  himself?"  they  all  asked  together. 

I  didn't  know.  So  I  just  bellered  and  boo-hooed 
some  more.  Things  were  getting  past  anything  I  could 
see  the  way  out  of. 

"He  might  have  hung  himself  to  one  of  the  iron  rings 
in  the  joists  above  the  forge,"  says  another  woman. 

"He  climbed  on  to  the  forge  and  tied  the  rope  to  one 
of  those  rings,  and  tied  the  other  end  around  his  neck, 
and  then  he  stepped  off  the  forge  and  swung.  Was 
that  how  he  did  it,  Danny?" 

I  nodded.  And  I  bellered  louder  than  ever.  I  knew 
that  Hank  was  down  in  that  cistern  below  the  kitchen, 
a  corpse  and  a  mighty  wet  corpse,  all  this  time;  but 
those  women  kind  of  got  me  to  thinking  he  was  hang 
ing  out  in  the  blacksmith  shop  by  the  forge,  too. 

Pretty  soon  one  woman  says,  shivery:  "I  wouldn't 
want  to  have  the  job  of  opening  the  door  of  the  black 
smith  shop  the  first  one!" 

And  they  all  shivered,  and  looked  at  Elmira,  and  says 
to  let  some  of  the  men  open  that  door.  And  Mis'  Al 
exander  says  she'll  run  and  get  her  husband  and  make 
him  do  it.  And  all  the  time  Elmira  sits  moaning  in 
that  chair.  One  woman  says  Elmira  ought  to  have  a 
cup  of  tea,  and  she'll  lay  off  her  bonnet  and  go  to  the 
kitchen  and  make  it  for  her.  But  Elmira  says  no,  she 


46     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

can't  a-bear  to  think  of  tea,  with  poor  Hennery  hang 
ing  out  there  in  the  shop.  But  she  was  kind  of  enjoy 
ing  all  that  fuss  being  made  over  her,  too.  And  all 
the  other  women  said:  "Poor  thing!"  But  most  of 
them  were  mad  because  she  said  she  didn't  want  any 
tea,  for  they  wanted  some  and  didn't  feel  free  to  take 
it  without  she  took  some.  They  coaxed  her  and  made 
her  see  that  it  was  her  duty,  and  she  said  she'd  have 
some  finally. 

So  they  all  went  out  to  the  kitchen,  taking  along  some 
of  the  best  room  chairs,  Elmira  coming,  too,  and  me 
tagging  along.  The  first  thing  they  noticed  was  those 
flatirons  on  top  of  the  cistern  lid.  Mis'  Primrose  says 
that  looks  funny.  But  Mis'  Rogers  says  Danny  must 
have  been  playing  with  them.  "Were  you  playing 
they  were  horses,  Danny?" 

I  was  feeling  considerable  like  a  liar  by  this  time, 
but  I  nodded.  I  couldn't  see  any  use  hurrying  things 
up.  I  was  bound  to  get  a  licking  pretty  soon  anyhow. 
I  could  always  bet  on  that.  So  they  picked  up  the 
flatirons,  and  as  they  picked  them  up  there  came  a 
splashing  noise  in  the  cistern.  I  thought  to  myself 
that  Hank's  corpse  would  be  out  of  there  in  a  minute, 
and  then  I'd  catch  it.  One  woman  says:  "Sakes  alive! 
What's  that  noise?" 

Elmira  says  the  cistern  is  full  of  fish  and  it  must 
be  some  of  the  biggest  ones  flopping  around.  If  they 
hadn't  been  worked  up  and  excited  and  talking  all  to 
gether  and  thinking  of  Hank  hanging  out  in  the  black 
smith  shop  they  might  have  suspicioned  something, 


HOW  HANK  SIGNED  THE  PLEDGE        47 

for  that  flopping  and  splashing  kept  up  steady.  Maybe 
I  should  have  mentioned  sooner  it  had  been  a  dry  sum 
mer  and  there  was  only  three  or  four  feet  of  water  in  the 
cistern  and  Hank  wasn't  in  scarcely  up  to  his  big  hairy 
chest.  When  Elmira  says  the  cistern  is  full  of  fish 
that  woman  opens  the  trap  door  and  looks  in.  Hank 
thinks  it's  Elmira  come  to  get  him  out,  he  says  after 
ward.  And  he  allows  he'll  keep  quiet  in  there  and 
make  believe  he  is  drowned  and  give  her  a  good  scare 
and  make  her  feel  sorry  for  him. 

But  when  the  cistern  door  was  opened  he  heard  a 
lot  of  clacking  tongues  like  a  hen  convention,  and  he 
allowed  she  had  told  the  neighbours,  and  he'd  scare 
them,  too.  So  he  laid  low.  And  the  woman  that 
looked  in,  she  sees  nothing,  for  it's  as  dark  down  there 
as  the  insides  of  the  whale  that  swallowed  Jonah.  But 
she  left  the  door  open  and  went  on  making  tea,  and 
there  wasn't  scarcely  a  sound  from  that  cistern,  only 
little  ripply  noises  like  it  might  have  been  fish. 

Pretty  soon  Mis'  Rogers  says: 

"It  has  drawed,  Elmira;  won't  you  have  a  cup?" 

Elmira  kicked  some  more,  but  she  took  hers.  And 
each  woman  took  hers.  And  one  woman,  a-sipping 
of  hers,  she  says: 

'The  departed  had  his  good  points,  Elmira/' 

Which  was  the  best  thing  had  been  said  of  Hank  in 
that  town  for  years  and  years. 

Old  Mis'  Primrose,  she  always  prided  herself  on  being 
honest,  no  matter  what  come  of  it,  and  she  ups  and  says : 

"I  don't  believe  in  any  hypocritics  at  a  time  like 


48  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

this,  any  more'n  any  other  time.  The  departed  wasn't 
any  good,  and  the  whole  town  knows  it,  and  Elmira 
ought  to  feel  like  it's  good  riddance  of  bad  rubbish, 
and  such  is  my  sentiments  and  the  sentiments  of  truth 
and  righteousness/' 

All  the  other  women  sings  out:  "W'y,  Mis'  Primrose, 
I  never!"  But  down  in  underneath  more  of  'em  agreed 
than  let  on  to.  Elmira  she  wiped  her  eyes  and  says: 

"Hennery  and  me  had  our  troubles,  there  ain't  any 
use  denying  that,  Mis'  Primrose.  It  has  often  been 
give  and  take  between  us  and  betwixt  us.  And  the 
whole  town  knows  he  has  lifted  his  hand  against  me 
more'n  once.  But  I  always  stood  up  to  Hennery  and 
I  fit  him  back,  free  and  fair  and  open.  I  give  him  as 
good  as  he  sent  on  this  earth  and  I  ain't  the  one  to 
carry  a  mad  beyond  the  grave.  I  forgive  Hennery 
all  the  orneriness  he  did  to  me,  and  there  was  a  lot  of 
it,  as  is  becoming  to  a  church  member,  which  he  never 
was." 

All  the  women  but  Mis'  Primrose  says:  "Elmira, 
you  have  got  a  Christian  sperrit!"  Which  did  her  a 
heap  of  good,  and  she  cried  considerable  harder,  leak 
ing  out  tears  as  fast  as  she  poured  tea  in.  And  each  one 
present  tried  to  think  up  something  nice  to  say  about 
Hank,  only  there  wasn't  much  they  could  say.  And 
Hank  in  that  cistern,  listening  to  every  word  of  it. 

Mis'  Rogers,  she  says:  "Before  he  took  to  drinking 
like  a  fish,  Hank  Walters  was  as  likely  a  lookin'  young 
feller  as  ever  I  see." 

Mis'  White,  she  says:   "Well,  Hank  he  never  was 


HOW  HANK  SIGNED  THE  PLEDGE       49 

a  stingy  man,  anyhow.  Often  and  often  White  has 
told  me  about  seeing  Hank  treating  the  crowd  down 
in  Nolan's  saloon  just  as  come-easy,  go-easy  as  if  it 
wasn't  money  he'd  ought  to  have  paid  his  honest  debts 
with." 

They  sat  there  that  way  telling  of  what  good  points 
they  could  think  of  for  ten  minutes,  and  Hank  hear 
ing  it  and  getting  madder  and  madder  all  the  time. 
By  and  by  Tom  Alexander  came  busting  into  the 
house. 

"What's  the  matter  with  all  you  women?"  he  says. 
'There's  nobody  hanging  in  that  blacksmith  shop.  I 
broke  the  door  down  and  went  in,  and  it's  empty." 

There  was  a  pretty  howdy-do,  then,  and  they  all  sing 
out: 

"Where's  the  corpse?" 

Some  thinks  maybe  someone  has  cut  it  down  and 
taken  it  away,  and  all  gabbled  at  once.  But  for  a 
minute  or  two  no  one  thought  that  maybe  little  Danny 
had  been  egged  on  to  tell  lies.  And  little  Danny  ain't 
saying  a  word.  But  Elmira  grabbed  me  and  shook 
me  and  said: 

"You  little  liar,  what  do  you  mean  by  that  story  of 
yours?" 

I  thought  that  licking  was  about  due  then.  But 
whilst  all  eyes  were  turned  on  me  and  Elmira,  there 
came  a  voice  from  the  cistern.  It  was  Hank's  voice, 
but  it  sounded  queer  and  hollow,  and  it  said: 

'Tom  Alexander,  is  that  you?" 

Some  of  the  women  screamed,  for  they  thought  it 


50  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

was  Hank's  ghost.  But  Mis'  Primrose  says:  "What 
would  a  ghost  be  doing  in  a  cistern?" 

Tom  Alexander  laughed  and  yelled  down  into  the 
cistern:  "What  in  blazes  you  want  to  jump  in  there 
for,  Hank?" 

"You  darned  ijut!"  said  Hank,  "you  quit  mocking 
me  and  get  a  ladder,  and  when  I  get  out'n  here  I'll 
learn  you  to  ask  me  what  I  wanted  to  jump  in  here  for!" 

"You  never  saw  the  day  you  could  do  it,"  says  Tom 
Alexander,  meaning  the  day  Hank  could  lick  him.  "And 
if  you  feel  that  way  about  it  you  can  stay  down  there, 
for  all  of  me.  I  guess  a  little  water  won't  hurt  you 
any,  for  a  change."  And  he  left  the  house. 

"Elmira,"  sings  out  Hank,  mad  and  bossy,  "you  go 
get  me  a  ladder!" 

But  Elmira,  her  temper  rose  up,  too,  all  of  a  sudden. 

"Don't  you  dare  order  me  around  like  I  was  the  dirt 
under  your  feet,  Hennery  Walters,"  she  says. 

Hank  fairly  roared,  he  was  so  mad.  "When  I  get 
out'n  here,"  he  shouted,  "I'll  give  you  what  you  won't 
forget  in  a  hurry!  I  heard  you  a-forgivin'  me  and 
a-weepin'  over  me!  And  I  won't  be  forgive  nor  weeped 
over  by  no  one!  You  go  and  get  that  ladder!" 

But  Elmira  only  answered:  "You  was  drunk  when 
you  fell  in  there,  Hank  Walters.  And  you  can  stay  in 
there  till  you  get  a  better  temper  on  to  you."  And  all 
the  women  laughed  and  said:  "That's  right,  Elmira! 
Spunk  up  to  him!" 

There  was  considerable  splashing  around  in  the  water 
for  a  couple  of  minutes.  And  then,  of  a  sudden,  a 


HOW  HANK  SIGNED  THE  PLEDGE        51 

live  fish  came  a-whirling  out  of  that  hole  in  the  floor, 
which  he  catched  with  his  hands.  It  was  a  big  bull 
head,  and  its  whiskers  around  its  mouth  was  stiffened 
into  spikes,  and  it  landed  kerplump  on  to  Mis'  Rogers' 
lap,  a-wiggling,  and  it  horned  her  on  the  hands.  She 
was  that  surprised  she  fainted.  Mis'  Primrose,  she  got 
up  and  licked  the  fish  back  into  the  cistern  and  said, 
right  decided : 

"Elmira  Walters,  if  you  let  Hank  out  of  that  cistern 
before  he's  signed  the  pledge  and  promised  to  jine  the 
church,  you're  a  bigger  fool  than  I  take  you  for.  A 
woman  has  got  to  make  a  stand!" 

And  all  the  women  sing  out:  "Send  for  Brother  Cart- 
wright!  Send  for  Brother  Cartwright!" 

And  they  sent  me  scooting  down  the  street  to  get 
him  quick.  He  was  the  preacher.  I  never  stopped 
to  tell  but  two  or  three  people  on  the  way  to  his  house, 
but  they  must  have  spread  the  news  quick,  for  when 
I  got  back  with  him  it  looked  like  the  whole  town 
was  at  our  house. 

It  was  along  about  dusk  by  this  time,  and  it  was  a 
prayer  meeting  night  at  the  church.  Mr.  Cartwright 
told  his  wife  to  tell  the  folks  that  came  to  the  prayer 
meeting  he'd  be  back  before  long,  and  to  wait  for  him. 
But  she  really  told  them  where  he'd  gone,  and  what  for. 

Mr.  Cartwright  marched  right  into  our  kitchen.  All 
the  chairs  in  the  house  was  in  there,  and  the  women 
were  talking  and  laughing,  and  they  had  sent  to  the 
Alexanderses  for  their  chairs,  and  to  the  Rogerses  for 
theirs.  Every  once  in  a  while  there  would  be  an  awful 


52     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

burst  of  language  come  rolling  up  from  the  hole  where 
that  unregenerate  old  sinner  was  cooped  up. 

I  have  travelled  around  considerable  since  those  days, 
'and  I  have  mixed  up  along  with  many  kinds  of  people 
in  many  different  places,  and  some  of  them  were  cussers 
to  admire.  But  I  never  heard  such  cussing  before  or 
since  as  old  Hank  did  that  night.  He  busted  his  own 
records  and  he  rose  higher  than  his  own  water  marks 
for  previous  years.  I  wasn't  anything  but  a  little  kid 
then,  not  fit  to  admire  the  full  beauty  of  it.  They  were 
deep  down  cusses  that  came  from  the  heart.  Looking 
back  at  it  after  these  years,  I  can  well  believe  what 
Brother  Cartwright  said  himself  that  night — that  it 
wasn't  natural  cussing,  and  that  some  higher  power, 
like  a  demon  or  an  evil  sperrit,  must  have  entered  into 
Hank's  human  carcase  and  given  that  terrible  eloquence 
to  his  remarks.  It  busted  out  every  few  minutes,  and 
the  women  would  put  their  fingers  into  their  ears  until 
a  spell  was  over.  And  it  was  personal,  too.  Hank 
would  listen  till  he  heard  a  woman's  voice  he  knew, 
and  then  he  would  let  loose  on  her  family,  going  back 
to  her  grandfathers  and  working  downward  to  her 
children's  children. 

Brother  Cartwright  steps  up  to  the  hole  in  the  floor 
and  says  gentle  and  soothing  like  an  undertaker  when 
he  tells  you  where  to  sit  at  a  home  funeral : 

"Brother  Walters!     Oh,  Brother  Walters!" 

"Brother!"  yelled  Hank,  "don't  ye  brother  me,  you 
snifflin',  psalm-singin',  yaller-faced,  pigeon-toed  hyp- 
percrit,  you!  Get  me  a  ladder,  gol  dern  ye,  and  I'll 


HOW  HANK  SIGNED  THE  PLEDGE        53 

mount  out  o'here  and  learn  ye  to  brother  me,  I  will!" 
Only  that  wasn't  anything  to  what  Hank  really  said; 
no  more  like  than  a  little  yellow  fluffy  canary  is  like  a 
turkey  buzzard. 

"Brother  Walters/'  said  the  preacher,  calm  but  firm, 
"we  have  all  decided  that  you  aren't  going  to  get  out 
of  that  cistern  until  you  sign  the  pledge." 

Then  Hank  told  him  what  he  thought  of  him  and 
pledges  and  church  doings,  and  it  wasn't  pretty.  He 
said  if  he  was  as  deep  in  the  eternal  fire  of  hell  as  he 
was  in  rain  water,  and  every  fish  that  nibbled  at  his  toes 
was  a  devil  with  a  red-hot  pitchfork  sicked  on  by  a 
preacher,  they  could  jab  at  him  until  the  whole  hereafter 
turned  into  icicles  before  he'd  sign  anything  that  a  man 
like  Mr.  Cartwright  gave  him  to  sign.  Hank  was 
stubborner  than  any  mule  he  ever  nailed  shoes  on  to, 
and  proud  of  being  that  stubborn.  That  town  was 
a  most  awful  religious  town,  and  Hank  knew  he  was 
called  the  most  unreligious  man  in  it,  and  he  was  proud 
of  that,  too;  and  if  any  one  called  him  a  heathen  it  just 
plumb  tickled  him  all  over. 

"Brother  Walters,"  says  the  preacher,  "we  are  going 
to  pray  for  you." 

And  they  did  it.  They  brought  all  the  chairs  close 
up  around  the  cistern  door,  in  a  ring,  and  they  all 
knelt  down  there  with  their  heads  on  the  chairs  and 
prayed  for  Hank's  salvation.  They  did  it  up  in  style, 
too,  one  at  a  time,  and  the  others  singing  out,  "Amen !" 
every  now  and  then,  and  they  shed  tears  down  on  to 
Hank. 


54     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

The  front  yard  was  crowded  with  men,  all  laughing 
and  talking  and  chawing  and  spitting  tobacco,  and 
betting  how  long  Hank  would  hold  out.  Si  Emery, 
that  was  the  city  marshal,  and  always  wore  a  big  nickel- 
plated  star,  was  out  there  with  them.  Si  was  in  a 
sweat,  because  Bill  Nolan,  who  ran  the  saloon,  and  some 
more  of  Hank's  friends  were  out  by  the  front  fence 
trying  to  get  Si  to  arrest  the  preacher.  For  they  said 
that  Hank  was  being  gradually  murdered  in  that  water 
and  would  die  if  he  was  held  there  too  long,  and  it 
would  be  a  crime.  Only  they  didn't  come  into  the 
house  amongst  us  religious  folks  to  say  it.  But  Si, 
he  says  he  don't  dare  to  arrest  anybody,  because  Hank's 
house  is  just  outside  the  village  corporation  line;  he's 
considerable  worried  about  what  his  duty  is,  not  lik 
ing  to  displease  Bill  Nolan. 

Pretty  soon  the  gang  that  Mrs.  Cartwright  had 
rounded  up  at  the  prayer  meeting  came  stringing  along 
in.  They  had  brought  their  hymn  books  with  them, 
and  they  sung.  The  whole  town  was  there  then,  and 
they  all  sung.  They  sung  revival  hymns  over  Hank. 
And  Hank,  he  would  just  cuss  and  cuss.  Every  time 
he  busted  out  into  another  cussing  spell  they  would 
start  another  hymn.  Finally  the  men  out  in  the  front 
yard  began  to  warm  up  and  sing,  too,  all  but  No 
lan's  crowd,  and  they  gave  Hank  up  for  lost  and  went 
back  to  the  barroom. 

The  first  thing  they  knew  they  had  a  regular  old- 
fashioned  revival  meeting  going  there,  and  that 
preacher  was  preaching  a  regular  revival  sermon.  I've 


HOW  HANK  SIGNED  THE  PLEDGE        55 

been  to  more  than  one  camp  meeting,  but  for  just 
naturally  taking  hold  of  the  whole  human  race  by  the 
slack  of  the  pants  and  dangling  of  it  over  hell  fire,  I 
never  heard  that  sermon  equalled.  Two  or  three  old 
backsliders  in  the  crowd  came  right  up  and  repented 
all  over  again.  The  whole  kit-and-biling  of  them  got 
the  power,  good  and  hard,  and  sung  and  shouted  till 
the  joints  of  the  house  cracked  and  it  shook  and  swayed 
on  its  foundations.  But  Hank,  he  only  cussed.  He 
was  obstinate,  Hank  was,  and  his  pride  and  dander 
had  risen  up. 

"Darn  your  ornery  religious  hides/'  he  says,  "you're 
cakin'  a  low-down  advantage  of  me,  you  are!  Let  me 
out  on  to  dry  land,  and  I'll  show  you  who'll  stick  it  out 
the  longest,  I  will!" 

Most  of  the  folks  there  hadn't  had  any  suppers,  so 
after  all  the  sinners  but  Hank  had  either  got  con 
verted  or  sneaked  away,  some  of  the  women  said  why 
not  make  a  kind  of  a  love  feast  of  it,  and  bring  some 
victuals,  like  they  do  at  church  sociables.  Because 
it  seemed  that  Satan  was  going  to  wrestle  there  all 
night,  like  he  did  with  the  angel  Jacob,  and  they  ought 
to  be  prepared.  So  they  did  it.  They  went  and  they 
came  back  with  things  to  eat  and  they  made  hot  coffee 
and  they  feasted  that  preacher  and  themselves  and 
Elmira  and  me,  right  in  Hank's  hearing. 

And  Hank  was  getting  pretty  hungry  himself.  And 
he  was  cold  in  that  water.  And  the  fish  were  nibbling 
at  him.  And  he  was  getting  cussed  out  and  weak  and 
soaked  full  of  despair.  There  wasn't  any  way  for  him 


56  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

to  sit  down  and  rest.  He  was  scared  of  getting  cramps 
in  his  legs  and  sinking  down  with  his  head  under  water 
and  being  drowned. 

He  said  afterward  he  would  have  done  the  last  with 
pleasure  if  there  had  been  any  way  of  starting  a  law 
suit  for  murder  against  that  gang.  So  along  between 
ten  and  eleven  o'clock  that  night  he  sings  out : 

"I  give  in,  gosh  dern  ye,  I  give  in!  Let  me  out  and 
I'll  sign  your  pesky  pledge!" 

Brother  Cartwright  was  for  getting  a  ladder  and 
letting  him  climb  out  right  away.  But  Elmira  said: 

"You  don't  know  him  like  I  do!  If  he  gets  out  be 
fore  he's  signed  the  pledge,  he'll  never  do  it." 

So  Brother  Cartwright  wrote  out  a  pledge  on  the  in 
side  leaf  of  the  Bible,  and  tied  it  on  to  a  string,  and  a 
pencil  on  to  another  string,  and  let  them  down,  and  held 
a  lantern  down,  too,  and  Hank  made  his  mark,  for  he 
couldn't  write.  But  just  as  Hank  was  making  his 
mark  that  preacher  spoke  some  words  over  Hank,  and 
then  he  said: 

"Now,  Henry  Walters,  I  have  baptized  you,  and  you 
are  a  member  of  the  church." 

You  might  have  thought  that  Hank  would  have 
broken  out  into  profanity  again  at  that,  for  he  hadn't 
agreed  to  anything  but  signing  the  pledge.  But  he 
didn't  cuss.  When  they  got  the  ladder  and  he  climbed 
up  into  the  kitchen,  shivering  and  dripping,  he  said 
serious  and  solemn  to  Mr.  Cartwright: 

"Did  I  hear  you  baptizing  me  in  that  water?'* 

Mr.  Cartwright  said  he  had. 


HOW  HANK  SIGNED  THE  PLEDGE        57 

"That  was  a  low-down  trick,"  said  Hank.  "You 
knowed  I  always  made  my  brags  that  I'd  never  jined 
a  church  and  never  would.  You  knowed  I  was  proud 
of  that.  You  knowed  it  was  my  glory  to  tell  it,  and 
that  I  set  a  heap  of  store  by  it,  in  every  way.  And 
now  you've  gone  and  took  that  away  from  me !  You've 
gone  and  jined  me  to  the  church !  You  never  fought  it 
out  fair  and  square,  man  strivin'  to  outlast  man,  like 
we  done  with  the  pledge,  but  you  sneaked  it  on  to  me 
when  I  wasn't  lookin'!" 

And  Hank  always  thought  he  had  been  baptized 
binding  and  regular.  And  he  sorrowed  and  grieved 
over  it,  and  got  grouchier  and  meaner  and  drunkener. 
No  pledge  nor  no  Prohibition  could  hold  Hank.  He 
was  a  worse  man  in  every  way  after  that  night  in  the 
cistern,  and  took  to  licking  me  harder  and  harder. 


ACCURSED  HAT! 

I  REQUEST  of  you  3.  razor,  and  you  present  me  with 
this  implement!  A  safety  razor!  One  cannot  gash 
oneself  with  your  invention.  Do  you  think  I  rush  to 
your  apartment  with  the  desire  to  barber  myself?  No,  , 
milles  diables,  no!  I  'ave  embrace  you  for  my  friend, 
and  you  mock  at  my  despair.  This  tool  may  safely 
abolish  the  'air  from  the  lip  of  the  drummer  when  the 
train  'ave  to  wiggle,  but  it  will  not  gash  the  jugular; 
it  will  not  release  the  bluest  blood  of  France  that 
courses  through  one's  veins. 

Oui,  I  will  restrain  myself.  I  will  'ave  a  drink. 
Merci!  I  will  make  myself  of  a  calmness.  I  will  ex 
plain. 

Yes,  it  is  a  woman.  What  else?  At  the  insides  of 
all  despair  it  is  a  woman  ever.  That  is  always  the — 
the — w'at  you  call  'im? — the  one  best  bet. 

Listen.  I  love  'er.  She  own  the  'ouse  of  which  I 
am  one  of  the  lodgers,  in'abiting  the  chamber  beneath 
the  skylight.  She  is  a  widow,  and  I  love  'er.  Of  such 
a  roundness  is  she! — and  she  'ave  the  restaurant  be 
yond  the  street.  Of  such  a  beauty! — and  'er  'usband, 
who  was  a  Monsieur  Flanagan,  'e  leave  'er  w'at  you  call 
well  fix  with  life-insurance.  So  well  fix,  so  large,  so 
brilliant  of  the  complexion,  so  merry  of  the  smile,  so 

58 


ACCURSED  HAT!  59 

competent  of  the  menage,  of  such  a  plumpness!  'Ow 
should  it  be  that  one  did  not  love  'er? 

But  she?  Does  she  smile  on  the  'andsome  French 
man  who  in'abit  'er  skylight  chamber  and  paint  and 
paint  and  paint  all  day  long,  and  sell,  oh,  so  little  of 
'is  paintings?  Helas!  She  scarcely  know  that  'e  ex 
ist!  She  'ave  scarcely  notice  'im.  'Ow  is  genius  of 
avail?  Wat  is  wit,  w'at  is  gallantry,  w'at  is  manner 
— w'at  is  all  these  things  w'en  one  does  not  possess  the — 
the — w'at  you  call  'im? — the  front?  Helas!  I  love, 
but  I  'ave  not  the  front!  My  trousers  are  all  of  a 
fringe  at  the  bottom,  and  my  collars  are  all  of  a  frows- 
iness  at  the  top.  My  sleeves  are  of  such  a  shine!  And 
my  'at 

Ten  thousand  curses  for  the  man  that  invented  'ats! 
You  are  my  friend — 'ave  you  a  pistol?  Yes,  I  will  be 
calm.  I  will  'ave  a  drink.  I  will  restrain  myself. 
Merci,  monsieur. 

My  sleeves  are  of  a  sleekness;  and  my  'at My  'at, 

I  look  at  'im.  'E  is — w'at  you  call  'im? — on  the  boom! 
I  contemplate  'im  sadly.  I  regard  'im  with  reproach. 
'E  is  ridiculous.  'E  look  like  'e  been  kicked.  With 
such  a  'at,  who  can  enact  the  lover?  With  such  a  'at, 
who  can  win  'imself  a  widow?  I  fly  into  a  rage.  I 
tear  from  my  'air.  I  shake  my  fist  at  the  nose  of  fate. 
I  become  terrible.  I  dash  my  'at  upon  the  floor,  and 
jump  upon  'im  with  fury.  Then  I  look  at  'im  with 
'atred.  'E  look  back  at  me  with  sorrow  in  'is  wrinkles. 
And,  Voila! — as  I  look  at  'im  I  'ave  a  thought.  The 
'at,  'e  straighten  out  from  my  jump.  W'en  my  feet  is 


60  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

off,  'e  rise  a  little  way  from  'is  wrinkles  where  I  crush 
'im.  'E  lift  'imself  slowly  like  a  jack-in-the-box  up 
from  'is  disgrace.  And  I  'ave  an  idea. 

Monsieur,  we  Frenchmen  are  a  people  of  resource! 

I  take  my  thought  to  an  agent  of  the  advertising 
profession.  I  say  I  'ave  come  to  the  place  where  I  am 
willing  to  degrade  my  genius  for  gold.  I  wish  to  eat 
more  often.  I  wish  to  marry  the  widow  I  love.  I  will 
forget  my  art;  I  will  make  some  dollars;  I  will  degrade 
myself  temporarily.  The  agent  of  advertising  'e  say 
'e  'ave  no  need  of  any  degradation,  to  take  'im  some 
where  else.  But  I  explain,  and  behold!  I  am  engaged 
to  go  to  work.  They  furnish  me  with  clothes  of  a 
design  the  most  fashionable,  and  with  a  'at  of  which 
I  am  myself  the  architect,  and  I  go  to  work.  I  'ate  it, 
but  I  go  to  work. 

The  manner  of  my  work  is  this.  The  'at,  'e  does  it 
all.  (Accursed  'at!)  'E  is  so  built  that  on  the  outside 
'e  look  like  any  other  silk  'at.  But  'e  'ave  'is  secrets. 
'E  'ave  'is  surprises.  On  'is  inside  there  is  a  clockwork 
and  a  spring.  At  intervals  'e  separate  'imself  in  two 
in  the  middle,  and  the  top  part  of  'im  go  up  in  the  air, 
slowly,  one  inch,  two  inch,  three  inch,  four  inch,  five 
inch,  six  inch — like  a  telescope  that  open  'imself  out. 
And  w'at  'ave  we  then?  Voila!  We  'ave  a  white  silk 
place,  and  on  it  is  printed  in  grand  letters: 

YOU    ARE   TOO    FAT! 

DR.   BLINN 
WILL  MAKE  YOU  THIN 


ACCURSED  HAT!  61 

You  see,  my  friend?  It  is  now  my  profession,  every 
afternoon  for  three  hours,  to  join  the  promenade;  to 
display  my  'at;  to  make  fast  in  the  minds  of  the  people 
'ow  fortunate  a  discovery  is  the  anti-fat  of  Monsieur 
Blinn. 

Monsieur,  I  am  always  the  gentleman.  Am  I  forced 
into  a  vulgar  role?  Well,  then,  there  is  something 
about  me  that  redeems  it  from  vulgarity.  I  am  a  mov 
able  advertisement,  but  none  the  less  I  am  an  advertise 
ment  of  dignity.  Those  clothes  they  furnish,  I  'ave 
made  under  my  own  direction.  I  adorn  my  foot  in  the 
most  poetical  of  boots.  Only  a  Frenchman  might  'ave 
created  my  coat.  My  trousers  are  poems.  I  am 
dressed  with  that  inspiration  of  elegance  which  only 
a  man  of  my  imagination  might  devise. 

Monsieur,  I  am  always  the  artist.  That  'at,  I  nevaire 
let  'im  go  up  with  a  pop  like  a  jacking-jump.  'E  is  not 
to  startle  the  most  sensitive  of  ladies.  Wen  'e  arise,  'e 
arise  slowly.  'E  is  majestic  in  'is  movement.  'E  as 
cend  with  gravity.  'E  go  up  with  dignity. 

For  three  hours  each  day,  I  thus  set  aside  my  finer 
emotions.  And  all  the  town  smile;  and  many  'undreds 
rush  to  buy  the  anti-fat  of  Monsieur  Blinn.  'Ow  is  it 
that  the  Widow  Flanagan 

Curses  upon  the  perfidy  of  woman !  Do  not  'old  me, 
I  say!  Let  me  go!  I  will  leap  from  your  window  to 
the  stones  below!  Well,  I  will  restrain  myself.  Yes,  I 
will  'ave  a  drink.  Merci! 

'Ow  is  it  that  the  Widow  Flanagan  does  not  perceive 
that  I  thus  make  of  my  'ead  a  billboard  three  hours 


62     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 


each  day?  Monsieur,  all  Frenchmen  are  of  an  origi 
nality  w'en  driven  to  it  by  fate,  and  not  the  least  of  them 
am  I !  To  'er  I  am  still  the  poor  but  'andsome  artist. 
It  is  in  the  parlours  of  the  agent  of  advertising  that  I 
dress  myself,  I  don  the  'at,  each  day.  I  wear  before 
my  eyes  a  thick  spectacles;  I  'ide  my  black  'air  beneath 
a  gray  wig;  I  'ave  shave  my  own  beard  and  each  day 
put  on  moustache  and  royal  of  a  colour  the  same  with 
the  wig.  There  is  no  danger  that  the  grave  foreigner,  so 
courteous,  so  elegant,  so  much  the  statesman,  who  con 
descend  to  advertise  the  anti-fat  of  Monsieur  Blinn, 
shall  be — shall  be — w'at  you  call  'im? — spotted  by  the 
Widow  Flanagan.  She  does  not  connect  'im  with  the 
'andsome  artist  who  in'abit  'er  skylight  chamber.  To 
do  so  would  be  to  kill  my  'opes.  For  love  is  not  to  be 
made  ridiculous. 

I  prosper.  I  'ave  money  each  week.  I  eat.  I  ac 
quire  me  some  clothes  which  are  not  the  same  with  those 
worn  by  the  employee  of  Monsieur  Blinn.  I  buy  me 
a  silk  'at  which  'ave  no  clockwork  in  'is  inside.  I  ac 
quire  the — w'at  you  call  'im? — the  front.  I  dine  at 
the  cafe  of  the  Widow  Flanagan  beyond  the  street.  I 
chat  with  the  Widow  Flanagan  w'en  I  pay  my  check. 
Monsieur,  the  Widow  Flanagan  at  las'  know  the  'and 
some  Frenchman  exist!  The  front,  'e  work  like  a 
charm.  'E  give  the  genius  beneath  'im  the  chance  to 
show  w'at  'e  can  do.  The  front,  'e  make — 'ow  you  call 
'im? — 'e  make  good. 

'Ave  I  said  enough?  You  are  my  friend;  you  see 
me,  w'at  I  am.  Is  it  possible  that  the  Widow  Flanagan 


ACCURSED  HAT!  63 

should  look  upon  me  and  not  be  of  a  flutter  through 
out?  I  'ave  said  enough.  She  see  me;  she  love  me. 
With  women,  it  is  always  so! 

The  day  is  name;  we  will  marry.  Already  I  look 
forward  to  the  time  that  I  am  no  longer  compelled  to 
the  service  of  the  anti-fat  of  Monsieur  Blinn.  Already 
I  indulge  my  fancy  in  my  'appiness  with  the  beautiful 
Widow  Flanagan,  whose  'usband  'ave  fortunately  die 
and  leave  'er  so  ver'  well  fix.  But,  belas! 

Grasp  me !  Restrain  me !  Again  my  grief  'ave  over 
power!  'Ave  you  a  rough-on-rats  in  the  'ouse?  'Ave 
you  a  poison?  Yes,  you  are  my  friend.  Yes,  I  will 
restrain  myself.  Yes,  I  will  'ave  a  drink.  Merci! 

The  day  is  name.  The  day  arrive.  I  'ave  shave.  I 
'ave  bathe.  I  am  'appy.  I  skip;  I  dance;  I  am 
exalt;  all  the  morning  I  'um  a  little  tune — O  love,  love, 
love!  And  such  a  widow — so  plump  and  so  well  fix! 

The  wedding  is  at  the  'ome  of  Madame  Flanagan. 
Meantime,  I  am  with  a  friend.  The  hour  approach. 
The  guests  are  there;  the  priest  is  there;  the  mother  of 
the  Widow  Flanagan,  come  from  afar,  is  there.  We 
arrive,  my  friend  and  me.  It  is  at  the  door  that  we  are 
met  by  the  mother  of  the  Widow  Flanagan.  It  is  at 
the  door  she  grasp  my  'and;  she  smile,  and  then,  before 
I  'ave  time  to  remove  my  'at 

Accursed  'at!  Restrain  me!  I  will  do  myself  a 
mischief!  Well,  yes,  I  will  be  calm.  I  will  'ave  a 
drink.  Merci,  my  friend. 

I  see  'er  face  grow  red.  She  scream.  She  lift  'er 
and  as  if  to  strike  me.  She  scream  again.  I  know 


64  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

not  w'at  I  must  think.  The  Widow  Flanagan  she  'ear 
'er  mother  scream.  She  rush  downstairs.  I  turn  to 
the  Widow  Flanagan,  but  she  'as  no  eyes  for  me.  She 
is  gazing  on  my  'at.  Monsieur,  then  I  know.  I  'ave 
got  the  wrong  one  in  dressing;  and  I  feel  that  accursed 
thing  are  lifting  itself  up  to  say  to  my  bride  and  her 
mother: 

YOU  ARE  TOO  FAT! 

DR.    BLINN 
WILL   MAKE   YOU   THIN 

And  be'ind  the  Widow  Flanagan  and  'er  mother  come 
crowding  fifty  guests,  and  everyone  'as  seen  my  'at  make 
those  remarks!  Accursed  widow!  The  door  is  slam  in 
my  face!  I  am  jilted! 

Ah,  laugh,  you  pigs  of  guests,  laugh,  till  you  shake 
down  the  dwelling  of  the  Widow  Flanagan!  Were  it 
not  that  I  remember  that  I  once  loved  you,  Madame 
Flanagan,  that  'ouse  would  now  be  ashes. 

Monsieur,  I  'ave  done.  I  'ave  spoken.  Now  I  will 
die.  'Ave  you  a  rope?  Well,  I  will  calm  myself.  Oui, 
I  will  'ave  a  drink.  Merci,  monsieur! 


ROONEY'S  TOUCHDOWN 

"FOOTBALL,"  said  Big  Joe,  the  friendly  waiter,  laying 
down  the  sporting  page  of  my  paper  with  a  reminiscent 
sigh,  "ain't  what  it  was  twenty  years  ago.  When  I 
played  the  game  it  was  some  different  from  wood-tag 
and  pump-pump-pull-away.  It's  went  to  the  dogs." 

"Used  to  be  a  star,  huh?"  said  I.  "What  college  did 
you  play  with,  Joe?" 

"No  college,"  said  Joe,  "can  claim  me  for  its  alma 
meter." 

He  seated  himself  comfortably  across  the  table  from 
me,  as  the  more  sociably  inclined  waiters  will  do  in  that 
particular  place.  "I  don't  know  that  I  ever  was  a  star. 
But  I  had  the  punch,  and  I  was  as  tough  as  that  piece 
of  cow  you're  trying  to  stick  your  fork  into.  And  I 
played  in  one  game  the  like  of  which  has  never  been 
pulled  off  before  or  since." 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  said  I,  handing  him  a  cigar.  Joe 
sniffed  and  tasted  it  suspiciously,  and  having  made  sure 
that  it  wasn't  any  brand  sold  on  the  premises,  lighted 
it.  There  was  only  one  other  customer,  and  it  was  near 
closing  time. 

"No,  sir,"  he  said,  "it  wasn't  any  kissing  game  in  my 
day.  Ever  hear  of  a  place  called  Kingstown,  Illinois? 
Well,  some  has  and  some  hasn't.  It's  a  burg  of  about 

65 


66     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

five  thousand  souls  and  it's  on  the  Burlington.  Along 
about  the  time  of  the  Spanish  war  it  turned  out  a  foot 
ball  team  that  used  to  eat  all  them  little  colleges 
through  there  alive. 

'The  way  I  joined  was  right  unexpected  to  me.  I 
happened  into  the  place  on  a  freight  train,  looking  for  a 
job,  and  got  pinched  for  a  hobo.  When  they  started 
to  take  me  to  the  lock-up  I  licked  the  chief  of  police 
and  the  first  deputy  chief  of  police,  and  the  second 
deputy,  but  the  other  member  of  the  force  made  four, 
and  four  was  too  many  for  me.  I  hadn't  been  incarcer 
ated  ten  minutes  before  a  pleasant  looking  young  fel 
low  who  had  seen  the  rumpus  comes  up  to  the  cell  door 
with  £he  chief,  and  says  through  the  bars : 

'"How  much  do  you  weigh?' 

"  'Enough,'  says  I,  still  feeling  sore,  'to  lick  six  long 
haired  dudes  like  you/ 

"  'Mebby/  says  he,  very  amiable,  'mebby  you  do. 
And  if  you  do,  I've  got  a  job  for  you.' 

"He  was  so  nice  about  it  that  he  made  me  ashamed 
of  my  grouch. 

'  'No  offence  meant/  says  I.  'I  only  weigh  230 
pounds  now.  But  when  I'm  getting  the  eats  regular  I 
soon  muscles  up  to  250  stripped/ 

"  'I  guess  you'll  do/  says  he,  'judging  by  the  fight  you 
put  up.  We  need  strength  and  carelessness  in  the  line/ 

"  'What  line  is  that?'  says  I,  suspicious. 
'  'From  now  on/  says  he,  'you're  right  tackle  on  the 
Kingstown  Football  Team.     I'm  going  to  get  you  a 
job  with  a  friend  of  mine  that  runs  a  livery  stable,  but 


ROONETS  TOUCHDOWN  67 

your  main  duty  will  be  playing  football.    Are  you  on?' 

"  'Lead  me  to  the  training  table/  says  I.  And  he 
paid  me  loose  and  done  it. 

"This  fellow  was  Jimmy  Dolan,  and  he  had  once 
played  an  end  on  Yale,  and  couldn't  forget  it.  He 
and  a  couple  of  others  that  had  been  off  to  colleges  had 
started  the  Kingstown  Team.  One  was  an  old  Michi 
gan  star,  and  the  other  had  been  a  half-back  at  Cornell. 
The  rest  of  us  wasn't  college  men  at  all,  but  as  I  re 
marked  before,  we  were  there  with  the  punch. 

'There  was  Tom  Sharp,  for  instance.  Tom  was 
thought  out  and  planned  and  preforedestinated  for  a 
centre  rush  by  Nature  long  before  mankind  ever  dis 
covered  football.  Tom  was  about  seventeen  hands  high, 
and  his  style  of  architecture  was  mostly  round  about. 
I've  seen  many  taller  men,  but  none  more  circumferous 
as  to  width  and  thickness.  Tom's  chest  was  the  size  and 
shape  of  a  barrel  of  railroad  spikes,  but  a  good  deal 
harder.  You  couldn't  knock  him  off  his  feet,  but  if 
you  could  have,  it  wouldn't  have  done  you  any  good, 
for  he  was  just  as  high  one  way  as  he  was  another — 
and  none  of  it  idle  fat.  Tom  was  a  blacksmith  during 
his  leisure  hours,  and  every  horse  and  mule  for  miles 
around  knowed  him  and  trembled  at  his  name.  He 
had  never  got  hold  of  nothing  yet  that  was  solid  enough 
to  show  him  how  strong  he  was. 

"But  the  best  player  was  a  big  teamster  by  the  name 
of  Jerry  Coakley.  Jerry  was  between  six  and  eight  feet 
high,  and  to  the  naked  eye  he  was  seemingly  all  bone. 
He  weighed  in  at  260  pounds  ad  valorem,  and  he  was 


68  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

the  only  long  bony  man  like  that  I  ever  seen  who  could 
get  himself  together  and  start  quick.  Tom  Sharp 
would  roll  down  the  field  calm  and  thoughtful  and 
philosophic,  with  the  enemy  clinging  to  him  and  drip 
ping  off  of  him  and  crumpling  up  under  him,  with  no 
haste  and  no  temper,  like  an  absent-minded  battleship 
coming  up  the  bay;  but  this  here  Jerry  Coakley  was 
sudden  and  nefarious  and  red-headed  like  a  train-wreck. 
And  the  more  nefarious  he  was,  the  more  he  grinned  and 
chuckled  to  himself. 

"For  two  years  that  team  had  been  making  a  rep 
utation  for  itself,  and  all  the  pride  and  affection  and 
patriotism  in  the  town  was  centred  on  to  it.  I  joined  on 
early  in  the  season,  but  already  the  talk  was  about  the 
Thanksgiving  game  with  Lincoln  College.  This  Lin 
coln  College  was  a  right  sizable  school.  Kingstown  had 
licked  it  the  year  before,  and  there  were  many  com 
plaints  of  rough  play  on  both  sides.  But  this  year  Lin 
coln  had  a  corking  team.  They  had  beat  the  state 
university,  and  early  in  the  season  they  had  played 
Chicago  off  her  feet,  and  they  were  simply  yearning 
to  wipe  out  the  last  year's  disgrace  by  devastating  the 
Kingstown  Athletic  Association,  which  is  what  we 
called  ourselves.  And  in  the  meantime  both  sides  goes 
along  feeding  themselves  on  small-sized  colleges  and 
athletic  associations,  hearing  more  and  more  about  each 
other,  and  getting  hungrier  and  hungrier. 

'Things  looked  mighty  good  for  us  up  to  about  a 
week  before  Thanksgiving.  Then  one  day  Jerry  Coak 
ley  turned  up  missing.  We  put  in  48  hours  hunting 


ROONEY'S  TOUCHDOWN  69 

him,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  there  was  a  meeting 
of  the  whole  chivalry  and  citizenry  of  Kingstown  in  the 
opery  hall  to  consider  ways  and  means  of  facing  the 
public  calamity.  For  the  whole  town  was  stirred  up. 
The  mayor  himself  makes  a  speech,  which  is  printed  in 
full  in  the  Kingstown  Record  the  next  day  along  with  a 
piece  that  says:  'Whither  are  we  drifting?' 

"Next  day,  after  practice,  Jimmy  Dolan  is  looking 
pretty  blue. 

"  'Cheer  up/  says  I,  'Jerry  wasn't  the  whole  team/ 

"  'He  was  about  a  fifth  of  it/  says  Captain  Dolan, 
very  sober. 

"  'But  the  worst  was  yet  to  come.  The  very  next  day, 
at  practice,  a  big  Swede  butcher  by  the  name  of  Lars 
Olsen,  who  played  right  guard,  managed  to  break  his 
ankle.  This  here  indignity  hit  the  town  so  hard  that  it 
looked  for  a  while  like  Lars  would  be  mobbed.  Some 
says  Lars  has  sold  out  to  the  enemy  and  broke  it  on 
purpose,  and  the  Kingstown  Record  has  another  piece 
headed:  'Have  we  a  serpent  in  our  midst?' 

"That  night  Dolan  puts  the  team  in  charge  of  Berty 
Jones,  the  Cornell  man,  with  orders  to  take  no  risks  on 
anything  more  injurious  than  signal  practice,  and  leaves 
town.  He  gets  back  on  Wednesday  night,  and  two 
guys  with  him.  They  are  hustled  from  the  train  to  a 
cab  and  from  the  cab  to  the  American  House,  and  into 
their  rooms,  so  fast  no  one  gets  a  square  look  at  them. 

"But  after  dinner,  which  both  of  the  strangers  takes 
in  their  rooms,  Dolan  says  to  come  up  to  Mr.  Breitt- 
mann's  room  and  get  acquainted  with  him,  which  the 


70  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

team  done.  This  here  Breittmann  is  a  kind  of  Austro- 
Hungarian  Dutchman  looking  sort  of  a  great  big  feller, 
with  a  foreign  cast  of  face,  like  he  might  be  a  German 
baron  or  a  Switzer  waiter,  and  he  speaks  his  language 
with  an  accent.  Mr.  Rooney,  which  is  the  other  one's 
name,  ain't  mentioned  at  first.  But  after  we  talk  with 
the  Breittmann  person  a  while  Jimmy  Dolan  says: 

'  'Boys,  Mr.  Rooney  has  asked  to  be  excused  from 
meeting  any  one  to-night,  but  you'll  all  have  an  oppor 
tunity  to  meet  him  to-morrow — after  the  game/ 

'  'But/  says  I,  'Cap,  won't  he  go  through  signal  prac 
tice  with  us?' 

"Dolan  and  Breittmann,  and  Berty  Jones,  who  was 
our  quarterback  and  the  only  one  in  the  crowd  besides 
Dolan  who  had  met  Mr.  Rooney,  looked  at  each  other 
and  kind  of  grinned.  Then  Dolan  says:  'Mr.  Breitt 
mann  knows  signals  and  will  run  through  practice  with 
us  in  the  morning,  but  not  Mr.  Rooney.  Mr.  Breitt 
mann,  boys,  used  to  be  on  the  Yale  scrub/ 

'  'Dem  vas  goot  days,  Chimmie/  says  this  here 
Breittmann,  'but  der  naturalist,  Chimmie,  he  is  also  the 
good  days.  What?' 

"The  next  day,  just  before  the  game,  I  got  my  first 
glimpse  of  this  Rooney  when  he  come  downstairs  with 
Breittmann  and  they  both  piled  into  a  cab.  He  wore 
a  long  overcoat  over  his  football  togs,  and  he  had  so 
many  headpieces  and  nose  guards  and  things  on  to  him 
all  you  could  see  of  his  face  was  a  bit  of  reddish  looking 
whisker  at  the  sides. 

"  'He's  Irish  by  the  name/  says  I,  'and  the  way  he 


RODNEY'S  TOUCHDOWN  71 

carries  them  shoulders  and  swings  his  arms  he  must 
have  learned  to  play  football  by  carrying  the  hod/  He 
wasn't  a  big  man,  neither,  and  I  thought  he  handled 
himself  kind  of  clumsy. 

"When  we  got  out  to  the  football  field  and  that 
Lincoln  College  bunch  jumped  out  of  their  bus  and  be 
gan  to  pass  the  ball  around,  the  very  first  man  we  see 
is  that  there  Jerry  Coakley. 

"Yes,  sir,  sold  out! 

"Dolan  and  me  ran  over  to  the  Lincoln  captain. 

"  'You  don't  play  that  man!'  says  Dolan,  mad  as  a 
hornet,  pointing  at  Jerry.  Jerry,  he  stood  with  his 
arms  crossed,  grinning  and  chuckling  to  himself,  bold  as 
Abraham  Lincoln  on  the  burning  deck  and  built  much 
the  same. 

"  'Why  not?'  says  the  college  captain,  'he's  one  of  our 
students/ 

'  'Him?'  says  I.  'Why,  he's  the  village  truck-driver 
here!'  And  that  there  Jerry  had  the  nerve  to  wink  at 
me. 

'  'Mr.  Coakley  matriculated  at  Lincoln  College  a 
week  ago,'  says  the  captain,  Jerry  he  grinned  more  and 
more,  and  both  teams  had  gathered  into  a  bunch  around 
us. 

'  'Matriculated?  Jerry  did?'  says  Jimmy  Dolan. 
'Why,  it's  all  Jerry  can  do  to  write  his  name/ 

'  'Mr.  Coakley  is  studying  the  plastic  arts,  and  tak 
ing  a  special  course  in  psychology/  says  the  captain. 

"  'Let  him  play,  Dolan/  says  Tom  Sharp.  'Leave 
him  to  me.  I'll  learn  him  some  art.  I'll  fix  him!' 


72     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

'  'O,  you  Tom!'  says  Jerry,  grinning  good-natured. 

"  'O,  you  crook!'  says  Tom.  And  Jerry,  still  grinning 
good-natured,  hands  Tom  one.  It  took  the  rest  of  the 
two  teams  to  separate  them,  and  they  both  started  the 
game  with  a  little  blood  on  their  faces.  We  made  no 
further  kick  about  Jerry  playing.  All  our  boys  wanted 
him  in  the  game.  'Get  him!'  was  the  word  passed 
down  the  line.  And  after  that  little  mix-up  both  sides 
was  eager  to  begin. 

"We  kicked  ofT.     I  noticed  this  here  Rooney  person 
got  down  after  the  kick-ofT  rather  slow,  sticking  close 
to  his  friend  Breittmann.     He  was  at  left  tackle,  right, 
between  Breittmann  at  guard,  and  Dolan,  who  played 
end. 

"Jerry,  he  caught  the  kick-ofT  and  come  prancing  up 
the  field  like  a  prairie  whirlwind.  But  Dolan  and  me 
got  to  him  about  the  same  time,  and  as  we  downed  him 
Tom  Sharp,  quite  accidental,  stepped  on  to  his  head 
with  both  feet. 

'  'Foul !'  yells  the  referee,  running  up  and  waving  his 
hand  at  Tom  Sharp.  'Get  off  the  field,  you !  I  penalize 
Kingstown  thirty  yards  for  deliberate^oul  play!' 

"But  Jerry  jumped  up — it  took  more'n  a  little  thing 
like  that  to  feaze  Jerry — and  shoved  the  referee  aside. 

"  'No,  you  don't  put  him  out  of  this  game,'  says  Jerry. 
'I  want  him  in  it.  I'll  put  him  out  all  right!' 

"Then  there  was  a  squabble,  that  ended  with  half  of 
both  teams  ordered  off  the  field.  And  the  upshot  of 
which  was  that  everybody  on  both  sides  agreed  to  abol 
ish  all  umpires  and  referees,  and  get  along  without  any 


RODNEY'S  TOUCHDOWN  73 

penalties  whatever,  or  any  officials  but  the  time-keeper. 
No,  sir,  none  of  us  boys  was  in  any  temper  by  that  time 
to  be  interfered  with  nor  dictated  to  by  officials. 

"Bo,  what  followed  wasn't  hampered  any  by  techni 
calities.  No,  sir,  it  wasn't  drop  the  handkerchief. 
There  wasn't  any  Hoyle  or  Spalding  or  Queensberry 
about  it.  It  was  London  prize  ring,  savate,  jiu  juitsi 
and  Graeco-Roman,  all  mixed  up,  with  everybody  mak 
ing  his  own  ground  rules.  The  first  down,  when  Tom 
Sharp  picked  up  that  Lincoln  College  Captain  and  hit 
Jerry  Coakley  over  the  head  with  him,  five  Lincoln  Col 
lege  substitutes  give  a  yell  and  threw  off  their  sweaters 
and  run  on  to  the  field.  Then  we  heard  another  yell, 
and  our  substitutes  come  charging  into  the  fray  and  by 
the  end  of  the  first  half  there  was  eighteen  men  on  each 
side,  including  three  in  citizens'  clothes  who  were  using 
brass  knucks  and  barrel  staves/' 

Joe  paused  a  moment,  dwelling  internally  upon  mem 
ories  evidently  too  sweet  for  words.  Tiien  he  sighed 
and  murmured:  "No,  sir,  the  game  ain't  what  it  was  in 
them  days.  Kick  and  run  and  forward  pass  and  such 
darned  foolishness!  Football  has  went  to  the  dogs! 

"Well,"  he  resumed,  flexing  his  muscles  reminiscently, 
"neither  side  wasted  any  time  on  end  runs  or  punts. 
It  was  punch  the  line,  and  then  punch  the  line  some 
more,  and  during  the  first  ten  minutes  of  play  the  ball 
didn't  move  twenty  yards  either  way  from  the  centre 
of  the  field,  with  a  row  on  all  the  time  as  to  whose  ball 
it  ought  to  be.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  whoever's 
could  keep  his  hands  on  to  it. 


74     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

"It  was  the  third  down  before  I  noticed  this  fellow 
Rooney  particular.  Then  our  quarterback  sent  a  play 
through  between  guard  and  tackle.  It  was  up  to 
Rooney  to  make  the  hole  for  it. 

"As  the  signal  was  give,  and  the  ball  passed  back, 
Breittmann  laid  his  arm  across  Rooney's  shoulders,  and 
I  heard  him  say  something  in  Dutch  to  him.  They 
moved  forward  like  one  man,  not  fast,  but  determined 
like.  A  big  college  duffer  tried  to  get  through  Rooney 
and  spill  the  play.  This  here  Rooney  took  him  around 
the  waist  and  slammed  him  on  to  the  ground  with  a  yell 
like  a  steamship  that's  discovered  fire  in  her  coal  bunk 
ers,  and  then  knelt  on  the  remains,  while  the  play  went 
on  over  'em.  I  noticed  Breittmann  had  a  hard  time 
getting  Rooney  off  of  him.  They  carried  the  fellow  off 
considerably  sprained,  and  two  more  Lincoln  College 
fellows  shucked  their  wraps  and  run  in  to  take  his  place. 

'The  very  next  play  went  through  the  same  hole, 
only  this  time  the  fellow  that  went  down  under  Rooney 
got  up  with  blood  soaking  through  his  shoulder  padding 
and  swore  he'd  been  bit.  But  nobody  paid  any  at 
tention  to  him,  and  the  Lincoln  boys  put  Jerry  Coakley 
in  opposite  Rooney. 

"  'You  cross-eyed,  pigeon-toed  Orangeman  of  a  hod- 
carrier,  you/  says  Jerry,  when  we  lined  up,  trying  to 
intimidate  Rooney,  'I'll  learn  you  football/ 

"But  Rooney,  with  his  left  hand  hold  of  Breittmann's, 
never  said  a  word.  He  just  looked  sideways  up  at 
Breittmann  like  he  was  scared,  or  mebby  shy,  and 
Breittmann  said  something  in  Dutch  to  him. 


ROONEY'S  TOUCHDOWN  75 

"That  play  we  made  five  yards,  and  we  made  it 
through  Jerry  Coakley,  too,  Mr.  Rooney  officiating. 
When  Breittmann  got  his  friend  off  Jerry,  Jerry  set  up 
and  tried  to  grin,  but  he  couldn't.  He  felt  himself  all 
over,  surprised,  and  took  his  place  in  the  line  without 
saying  a  word. 

'Then  we  lost  the  ball  on  a  fumble,  which  is  to  say 
the  Lincoln  centre  jumped  on  to  Tom  Sharp's  wrists 
with  both  feet  when  he  tried  to  pass  it,  and  Jerry  Coak 
ley  grabbed  it.  The  first  half  closed  without  a  score, 
with  the  ball  still  in  the  centre  of  the  field. 

'The  second  half,  I  could  see  right  away,  Jerry  Coak 
ley  had  made  up  his  mind  to  do  up  Rooney.  The  very 
first  play  Lincoln  made  was  a  guard's  back  punch  right 
at  Rooney.  I  reckon  the  whole  Lincoln  team  was  in 
that  play,  with  Jerry  Coakley  in  the  van. 

"We  got  into  it,  too.  All  of  us,"  Joe  paused  again,  with 
another  reflective  smile.  Pretty  soon  he  continued. 

"Yes,  sir,  that  was  some  scrimmage.  And  in  the 
midst  of  it,  whoever  had  the  ball  dropped  it.  But  for 
a  minute,  nobody  seemed  to  care.  And  then  we  dis 
covered  that  them  unsportsmanlike  Lincoln  College 
students  had  changed  to  baseball  shoes  with  metal 
spikes  between  the  halves.  We  hadn't  thought  of  that. 

"After  about  a  minute  of  this  mauling,  clawing  mess, 
right  out  of  the  midst  of  it  rolled  the  ball.  And  then 
came  this  here  Rooney  crawling  after  it — crawling  I 
say! — on  his  hands  and  .feet. 

"He  picked  it  up  and  straightened  himself. 

"'Run,  Rooney,  run!'  says  I.     And  he  had  a  clear 


76  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

field.  But  he  didn't  seem  to  realize  it.  He  just  tucked 
that  ball  under  one  arm,  and  ambled. 

"Half  a  dozen  of  us  fell  in  and  tried  to  make  inter 
ference  for  him — but  he  wouldn't  run;  he  just  dog- 
trotted,  slow  and  comfortable.  And  in  a  second  Jerry 
Coakley  sifted  through  and  tackled  him. 

"Rooney  stopped.  Stopped  dead  in  his  track,  as  if 
he  was  surprised.  And  then,  using  only  one  hand — 
only  one  hand,  mind  you — he  picked  that  there  Jerry 
Coakley  up,  like  he  was  an  infant,  give  him  one  squeeze, 
and  slung  him.  Yes,  sir,  Jerry  was  all  sort  of  crumpled 
up  when  he  lit! 

"And  he  kept  on,  slow  and  easy  and  gentle.  The 
Lincoln  gang  spilled  the  interference.  But  that  didn't 
bother  Rooney  any.  Slow  and  certain  and  easy  he 
went  down  that  field.  And  every  time  he  was  tackled 
he  separated  that  tackier  from  himself  and  treated  him 
like  he  had  Jerry. 

"Yes,  sir,  he  strung  behind  him  ten  men  out  of  the 
nineteen  players  Lincoln  College  had  in  that  game,  as 
he  went  down  the  field.  From  where  I  was  setting  on 
top  of  the  Lincoln  centre  rush,  I  counted  'em  as  he  took 
'em.  Slow  and  solemn  and  serious  like  an  avenging 
angel,  Mr.  Rooney  made  for  them  goal  posts,  taking 
no  prisoners,  and  leaving  the  wounded  and  dead  in  a 
long  windrow  behind  him.  It  wasn't  legalized  football, 
mebby,  but  it  was  a  grand  and  majestic  sight  to  see 
that  stoop-shouldered  feller  with  the  red  whiskers  pro 
ceeding  calmly  and  unstoppably  forward  like  the  wrath 
of  God. 


RODNEY'S  TOUCHDOWN  77 

"Yes,  sir,  the  game  was  ours.  We  thought  it  was, 
leastways.  All  he  had  to  do  was  touch  that  there  ball 
to  the  ground!  The  whole  of  Kingstown  was  drawing 
in  its  breath  to  let  out  a  cheer  as  soon  as  he  done  it. 

"But  it  never  let  that  yell.  For  when  he  reached  the 
goal " 

Here  Joe  broke  off  again  and  chuckled. 

"Say/'  he  said,  "you  ain't  going  to  believe  what  I'm 
telling  you  now.  It's  too  unlikely.  I  didn't  believe  it 
myself  when  I  seen  it.  But  it  happened.  Yes,  sir,  that 
nut  never  touched  the  ground  with  the  ball ! 

"Instead,  with  the  ball  still  under  one  arm,  he  climbed 
a  goal  post.  Climbed  it,  I  tell  you,  with  both  legs  and 
one  arm.  And  setting  straddle  of  that  cross  bar  believe 
me  or  not,  be  began  to  shuck.  In  front  of  all  that 
crowd,  dud  after  dud,  he  shucked. 

"And  there  wasn't  no  cheers  then,  for  in  a  minute 
there  he  set,  a  monkey!  Yes,  sir,  the  biggest  blamed 
monkey  you  ever  seen,  trying  to  crack  that  football 
open  on  a  goal  post  under  the  belief  th;.t  it  was  a  cocoa- 
nut.  Monkey,  did  I  say?  Monkey  ain't  any  word 
for  it!  He  was  a  regular  ape;  he  was  one  of  these  here 
orang-outang  baboons !  Yes,  sir,  a  regular  gosh-darned 
Darwinian  gorilla!" 

Joe  took  a  fresh  light  for  his  cigar,  and  cocked  his  eye 
again  at  my  sporting  supplement.  "I  notice,"  he  said, 
sarcastically,  "Princeton  had  a  couple  of  men  hurt 
yesterday  in  the  Yale  game.  Well,  accidents  is  bound 
to  happen  even  in  ring-around-the-rosy  or  prisoner's 
base.  What?" 


TOO  AMERICAN 

"Is  IT  a  real  English  cottage?"  we  asked  the  agent 
suspiciously,  "or  is  it  one  that  has  been  hastily  aged  to 
rent  to  Americans?" 

It  was  the  real  thing:  he  vouched  for  it.  It  was  right 
in  the  middle  of  England.  The  children  could  walk 
for  miles  in  any  direction  without  falling  off  the  edge  of 
England  and  getting  wet. 

"See  here!"  I  said.  "How  many  blocks  from  Scot 
land  is  it?" 

"Blocks  from  Scotland?"     He  didn't  understand. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "blocks  from  Scotland."  I  explained. 
My  wife  and  I  had  been  trying  to  get  a  real  English 
accent.  That  was  one  of  the  things  we  had  come  to 
England  for.  We  wanted  to  take  it  back  with  us  and 
use  it  in  Brooklyn,  and  we  didn't  want  to  get  too  near 
Scotland  and  get  any  Scottish  dialect  mixed  up  with  it. 
It  seemed  that  the  cottage  was  quite  a  piece  from  Scot 
land.  There  was  a  castle  not  far  away — the  fifteenth 
castle  on  the  right  side  as  you  go  into  England.  When 
there  wasn't  any  wind  you  didn't  get  a  raw  sea  breeze 
or  hear  the  ocean  vessels  whistle. 

"Is  it  overgrown  with  ivy/'  asked  Marian,  my 
wife. 

Yes,  it  was  ivy-covered.  You  could  scarcely  see  it 

78 


TOO  AMERICAN  79 

for  ivy — ivy  that  was  pulling  the  wall  down,  ivy  as 
deep-rooted  as  the  hereditary  idea. 

"Are  the  drains  bad?"  I  asked. 

They  were.  There  would  be  no  trouble  on  that  score. 
What  plumbing  there  was,  was  leaky.  The  roof  leaked. 
There  was  neither  gas  nor  electricity,  nor  hot  and  cold 
water,  nor  anything  else. 

"I  suppose  the  place  is  rather  damp?"  I  said  to  the 
agent.  "Is  it  chilly  most  of  the  time?  Are  the  flues 
defective?  Are  the  floors  uneven?  Is  the  place  thor 
oughly  uncomfortable  and  unsanitary  and  unhabitable 
in  every  particular?" 

Yes,  it  had  all  these  advantages.  I  was  about  to 
sign  the  lease  when  my  wife  plucked  me  by  the  sleeve 
in  her  impulsive  American  way.  "Is  there  a  bath 
room?"  she  asked. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Minever,"  said  the  agent  with  dignity, 
"there  is  not.  I  can  assure  you  that  there  are  no  conven 
iences  of  any  kind.  It  is  a  real  English  cottage." 

I  took  the  place.  It  was  evening  of  the  third  day 
after  we  took  possession  that  I  discovered  that  we  had 
been  taken  in.  All  the  other  Americans  in  that  part 
of  England  were  sitting  out  in  front  of  their  cottages 
trying  to  look  as  if  they  were  accustomed  to  them,  and 
we — my  wife  and  Uncle  Bainbridge  and  I — were  sitting 
in  front  of  ours  trying  to  act  as  English  as  we  knew 
how,  when  a  voice  hailed  me. 

"You  are  Americans,  aren't  you,  sir?"  said  the  voice. 

The  voice  was  anyhow;  so  we  shamefacedly  con 
fessed. 


80     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

"I  thought  you  looked  like  it,"  said  the  voice,  and 
its  owner  came  wavering  toward  us  through  the  twi 
light. 

"What  makes  you  think  we  look  like  it?"  I  said,  a 
trifle  annoyed;  for  it  had  been  my  delusion  that  we 
had  got  ourselves  to  looking  quite  English — English 
enough,  at  least,  so  that  no  one  could  tell  us  in  the  faint 
light. 

"Our  clothes  don't  fit  us,  do  they?"  asked  my  wife 
nervously. 

'They  can't  fit  us,"  said  I ;  "they  were  made  in  Lon 
don." 

I  spoke  rather  sharply,  I  suppose.  And  as  I  was 
speaking,  a  most  astonishing  thing  happened — the  per 
son  I  had  been  speaking  to  suddenly  disappeared.  He 
was,  and  then  he  was  not!  I  sprang  up,  and  I  could 
tell  from  my  wife's  exclamation  that  she  was  startled, 
too.  As  for  Uncle  Bainbridge,  he  seldom  gives  way  to 
emotion  not  directly  connected  with  his  meals  or  his 
money. 

"Here,  you!"  I  called  out  loudly,  looking  about  me. 

The  figure  came  waveringly  into  view  again. 

"Where  did  you  go  to?"  I  demanded.  "What  do  you 
mean  by  acting  like  that?  Who  are  you,  anyhow?" 

"Please,  sir,"  said  the  wavery  person,  "don't  speak  so 
crosslike.  It  always  makes  me  vanish.  I  can't  help 
it,  sir." 

He  continued  timidly: 

"1  heard  a  new  American  family  had  moved  here 
and  I  dropped  by  to  ask  you,  sir,  do  you  need  a  ghost?" 


TOO  AMERICAN  81 

"A  ghost!     Are  you " 

"Yes,  sir/'  with  a  deprecating  smile.  "Only  an 
American  ghost;  but  one  who  would  appreciate  a  situa 
tion  all  the  more,  sir,  for  that  reason.  I  don't  mind 
telling  you  that  there's  a  feeling  against  us  American 
ghosts  here  in  England,  and  I've  been  out  of  a  place 
for  some  time.  Maybe  you  have  noticed  a  similar 
feeling  toward  Americans?  I'm  sure,  sir,  you  must 
have  noticed  a  discrimination,  and " 

"Don't  say  'sir'  all  the  time,"  I  told  him. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  rejoined:  "but  it's  a  habit.  I've 
tried  very  hard  to  fit  myself  to  English  ways  and  it's  got 
to  be  second  nature,  sir.  My  voice  I  can't  change;  but 
my  class — I  was  a  barber  in  America,  sir — my  class  I 
have  learned.  And,"  he  repeated  rather  vacantly,  "I 
just  dropped  by  to  see  if  you  wanted  a  ghost.  Being  fel 
low  Americans,  you  know,  I  thought "  His  voice 

trailed  off  into  humble  silence,  and  he  stood  twisting  a 
shadowy  hat  round  and  round  in  his  fingers. 

"See  here!"  I  said.     "Should  we  have  a  ghost?" 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  how  much  rent  do  you  pay?" 

I  told  him. 

He  answered  politely  but  with  decision,  "Then,  sir,  in 
all  fairness,  you  are  entitled  to  a  ghost  with  the  place. 
It  gives  a  certain  tone,  sir." 

"Why  weren't  we  given  one,  then?"  I  asked 

"Well "  he  said,  and  paused.     If  a  ghost  can 

blush  with  embarrassment,  he  blushed.  "You  see,"  he 
went  on,  making  it  as  easy  for  me  as  he  could,  "Eng 
lish  ghosts  mostly  object  to  haunting  Americans,  just 


82  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

as  American  ghosts  find  it  difficult  to  get  places  in 

English  houses  and  cottages.  You  see,  sir,  we  are " 

He  halted  lamely,  and  then  finished,  "We're  so  Ameri 
can  somehow,  sir." 

"But  we've  been  cheated!"  I  said. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  American  ghost,  "regularly  had." 
He  said  it  in  quite  an  English  manner,  and  I  compli 
mented  him  on  his  achievement.  He  smiled  with  a 
child's  delight. 

"Would  I  do?"  he  urged  again,  with  a  kind  of  timid 
insistence. 

My  sympathies  were  with  him.  "You  don't  mind 
children?"  I  said.  "We  have  two." 

"No,"  he  replied;  "leastways,  if  they  aren't  very 
rough,  I  am  not  much  frightened  of  them." 

"I  guess,"  I  began,  "that "  I  was  about  to  say 

that  he  would  do,  when  my  wife  interrupted  me. 

"We  do  not  want  a  ghost  at  all,"  she  said  firmly. 

"But,  my  dear " 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  at  me,  and  I  was  silent. 
After  looking  from  one  to  the  other  of  us  wistfully  for 
a  moment,  the  applicant  turned  and  drifted  away,  van 
ishing  dejectedly  when  he  reached  the  gate. 

"You  heard  what  he  said,  Henry?"  said  my  wife  as 
he  disappeared.  "It  is  lucky  that  you  have  me  by 
you!  Do  you  want  to  saddle  yourself  with  an  Ameri 
can  ghost?  For  my  part,  I  will  have  an  English  ghost 
or  none!" 

I  realized  that  Marian  was  right;  but  I  felt  sorry  for 
the  ghost. 


TOO  AMERICAN  83 

"What  did— the  fellow— want?"  roared  Uncle  Bain- 
bridge,  who  is  deaf,  and  brings  out  his  words  two  or 
three  at  a  time. 

"Wanted  to  know — if  we  wanted — a  ghost!"  I 
roared  in  reply. 

"Goat?  Goat?  Huh-huh!"  shouted  Uncle  Bain- 
bridge.  "No,  sir!  Get  'em  a  pony — and  a  cart — little 
cart!  That's  the  best — thing — for  the  kids!" 

Uncle  Bainbridge  is,  in  fact,  so  deaf  that  he  is  never 
bothered  by  the  noises  he  makes  when  he  eats.  As  a 
rule  when  you  speak  to  him  he  first  says,  "How?" 
Then  he  produces  a  kind  of  telephone  arrangement. 
He  plugs  one  end  into  his  ear,  and  shoves  a  black  rub 
ber  disk  at  you.  You  talk  against  the  disk,  and  when 
he  disagrees  with  you  he  pulls  the  plug  out  of  his  ear 
to  stop  your  foolish  chatter,  and  snorts  contemptuously. 
Once  my  wife  remarked  to  me  that  Uncle  Bainbridge's 
hearing  might  be  better  if  he  would  only  cut  those 
bunches  of  long  gray  hair  out  of  his  ears.  They  annoy 
every  one  except  Uncle  Bainbridge  a  great  deal.  But 
the  plug  was  in,  after  all,  and  he  heard  her,  and  asked 
one  of  the  children  in  a  terrible  voice  to  fetch  him  the 
tin  box  he  keeps  his  will  in. 

Uncle  Bainbridge  is  my  uncle.  My  wife  reminds  me 
of  that  every  now  and  then.  And  he  is  rather  hard  to 
live  with.  But  Marian,  in  spite  of  his  little  idiosyncra 
sies,  has  always  been  generous  enough  to  wish  to  pro 
tect  him  from  designing  females  only  too  ready  to 
marry  him  for  his  money.  So  she  encourages  him  to 
make  his  home  with  us.  If  he  married  at  all,  she 


84     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

preferred  that  he  should  marry  her  cousin,  Miss  Sophia 
Calderwod.  That  was  also  Miss  Sophia's  preference. 
We  did  get  a  ghost,  however,  and  a  real  English  ghost. 
The  discovery  was  mine.  I  was  sitting  in  the  room  we 
called  the  library  one  night,  alone  with  my  pipe,  when  I 
heard  a  couple  of  raps  in,  on,  about,  or  behind  a  large 
bookcase  that  stood  diagonally  across  one  corner.  It 
was  several  days  after  we  had  refused  the  American 
applicant,  and  I  had  been  thinking  of  him  more  or  less, 
and  wondering  what  sort  of  existence  he  led.  One  half 
the  world  doesn't  know  how  the  other  half  lives.  I 
suppose  my  reflections  had  disposed  my  mind  to  psychic 
receptivity;  for  when  I  heard  raps  I  said  at  once: 

"Are  there  any  good  spirits  in  the  room?"  It  is  a 
formula  I  remembered  from  the  days  when  I  had  been 
greatly  interested  in  psychic  research. 

Rap!  rap!  came  the  answer  from  behind  the  book 
case. 

I  made  a  tour  of  the  room,  and  satisfied  myself  that 
it  was  not  a  flapping  curtain,  or  anything  like  that. 

"Do  you  have  a  message  for  me?"  I  asked. 

The  answer  was  in  the  affirmative. 

"What  is  it?" 

There  was  a  confused  and  rapid  jumble  of  raps.  I 
repeated  the  question  with  the  same  result. 

"Can  you  materialize?" 

The  ghost  rapped  no. 

Then  it  occurred  to  me  that  probably  this  was  a  ghost 
of  the  sort  that  can  communicate  with  the  visible  world 
only  through  replying  to  such  questions  as  can  be  an- 


TOO  AMERICAN  85 

swered  by  yes  or  no.  There  are  a  great  many  of  these 
ghosts.  Indeed,  my  experience  in  psychic  research  has 
led  me  to  the  conclusion  that  they  are  in  the  majority. 

"Were  you  sent  down  by  the  agent  to  take  this 
place?"  I  asked. 

"No!"  It  is  impossible  to  convey  in  print  the  sug 
gestion  of  hauteur  and  offended  dignity  and  righteous 
anger  that  the  ghost  managed  to  get  into  that  single 
rap.  I  have  never  felt  more  rebuked  in  my  life;  I  have 
never  been  made  to  feel  more  American. 

"Sir  or  madam,"  I  said,  letting  the  regret  I  felt  be 
apparent  in  my  voice,  "I  beg  your  pardon.  If  you 
please,  I  should  like  to  know  whose  ghost  you  are.  I 
will  repeat  the  alphabet.  You  may  rap  when  you 
wish  me  to  stop  at  a  letter.  In  that  way  you  can 
spell  out  your  information.  Is  that  satisfactory?" 

It  was. 

"Who  are  you?" 

Slowly,  and  with  the. assured  raps  of  one  whose 
social  position  is  defined,  fixed,  and  secure  in  whatever 
state  of  existence  she  may  chance  to  find  herself,  the 
ghost  spelled  out,  "Lady  Agatha  Pelham." 

I  hope  I  am  not  snobbish.  Indeed,  I  think  I  have 
proved  over  and  over  again  that  I  am  not,  by  frankly 
confessing  that  I  am  an  American.  But  at  the  same 
time  I  could  not  repress  a  little  exclamation  of  pleasure 
at  the  fact  that  we  were  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  a  mem 
ber  of  the  English  aristocracy.  You  may  say  what  you 
will,  but  there  is  a  certain  something — a  manner — an 
air — I  scarcely  know  how  to  describe  it,  but  it  is  there; 


86     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

it  exists.  In  England,  one  meets  it  so  often— I  hope 
you  take  me. 

My  gratification  must  have  revealed  itself  in  my 
manner.  Lady  Agatha  rapped  out,  if  anything  with 
more  haughtiness  than  she  had  previously  employed — 
yes,  even  with  a  touch  of  defiance : 

"I  was  at  one  time  a  governess." 

I  gradually  learned  that  while  her  own  family  was  as 
good  as  the  Pelham  family,  Lady  Agatha's  parents  had 
been  in  very  reduced  circumstances,  and  she  had  had  to 
become  a  governess.  When  Sir  Arthur  Pelham  had 
married  her,  his  people  acted  very  nasty.  He  hadn't 
any  money,  and  they  had  wanted  him  to  marry  some. 
He  got  to  treating  her  very  badly  before  he  died.  And 
during  his  lifetime,  and  after  it,  Lady  Agatha  had  had 
a  very  sad  life  indeed.  Still,  you  know,  she  was  an 
aristocrat.  She  made  one  feel  that  as  she  told  her  story 
bit  by  bit.  For  all  this  came  very  gradually,  as  the 
result  of  many  conversations,  and  not  at  once.  We 
speedily  agreed  upon  a  code,  very  similar  to  the  Morse 
telegraphic  code,  and  we  still  further  abbreviated  this, 
until  our  conversations,  after  a  couple  of  weeks,  got  to  be 
as  rapid  as  that  of  a  couple  of  telegraph  operators  chat 
ting  over  the  wires.  I  intimated  that  it  must  be  rather 
rough  on  her  to  be  haunting  Americans,  and  she  said 
that  she  had  once  lived  in  our  cottage  and  liked  it. 

In  spite  of  her  aristocracy,  I  don't  suppose  there  ever 
was  a  more  domestic  sort  of  ghost  than  Lady  Agatha. 
We  all  got  quite  fond  of  her,  and  I  think  she  did  of  us, 
too,  in  spite  of  our  being  American.  Even  the  chil- 


TOO  AMERICAN  87 

dren  got  into  the  habit  of  taking  their  little  troubles 
and  perplexities  to  her.  And  Marian  used  to  say  that 
with  Lady  Agatha  in  the  house,  when  Uncle  Bain- 
bridge  and  I  happened  to  be  away,  she  felt  so  safe 
somehow. 

I  imagine  the  fact  that  she  had  once  been  a  governess 
would  have  made  it  rather  difficult  for  Lady  Agatha  in 
the  house  of  an  English  family  of  rank.  On  the  other 
hand,  her  inherent  aristocratic  feeling  made  it  quite 
impossible  for  her  to  haunt  any  one  belonging  to  the 
middle  or  lower  classes.  She  could  haunt  us,  as  Ameri 
cans,  and  not  feel  that  the  social  question  mattered  so 
much,  in  spite  of  what  the  American  ghost  had  hinted. 
We  Americans  are  so  unclassified  that  the  English  often 
take  chances  with  individuals,  quite  regardless  of  what 
each  individual's  class  would  naturally  be  if  he  had  a 
class.  Even  while  they  do  this  they  make  us  feel  very 
often  that  we  are  hopelessly  American;  but  they  do  it, 
and  I,  for  one,  am  grateful.  Lady  Agatha  sympathized 
with  our  desire  to  become  as  English  as  possible,  she 
could  quite  understand  that.  I  find  that  many  Eng 
lishmen  approve  the  effort,  although  remaining  confi 
dent  that  it  will  end  in  failure. 

Lady  Agatha  helped  us  a  great  deal.  We  used  to 
have  lessons  in  the  evenings  in  the  library.  For  in 
stance,  the  children  would  stand  at  attention  in  front 
of  the  bookcase,  and  repeat  a  bit  of  typical  English 
slang,  trying  to  do  it  in  an  absolutely  English  way. 
They  would  do  it  over  and  over  and  over,  until  finally 
Lady  Agatha  would  give  a  rap  of  approval.  Or  I  would 


88  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

pretend  that  I  was  an  Englishman  in  a  railway  carriage, 
and  that  an  American  had  just  entered  and  I  was 
afraid  he  would  speak  to  me.  I  got  rather  good  at  this, 
and  made  two  or  three  trips  to  London  to  try  it  out.  I 
found  that  Americans  were  imposed  on,  and  actually 
in  one  instance  I  made  one  Englishman  think  that  I  was 
an  Englishman  who  thought  he  was  an  American.  He 
was  a  nobody,  however,  and  didn't  really  count.  And 
then,  I  am  afraid,  I  spoiled  it  all.  We  Americans  so 
often  spoil  it  all !  I  enjoyed  it  so  that  I  told  him.  He 
looked  startled  and  said,  "But  how  American!"  He 
was  the  only  Englishman  I  ever  fooled. 

But  Lady  Agatha's  night  classes  were  of  great  benefit 
to  us.  We  used  to  practise  how  to  behave  toward 
English  servants  at  country  houses,  and  how  to  act 
when  presented  at  court,  and  dozens  of  things  like  that : 
not  that  we  had  been  asked  to  a  country  house,  or  ex 
pected  to  be  presented  at  court  soon.  Marian  and  I 
had  agreed  that  the  greater  part  of  this  information 
would  be  quite  useless  while  Uncle  Bainbridge  was  still 
spared  to  us.  Even  in  Brooklyn  Uncle  Bainbridge 
had  been  something  of  a  problem  at  times.  But  we 
thought  it  just  as  well  to  prepare  ourselves  for  the  sad 
certainty  that  Uncle  Bainbridge  would  pass  into  a 
better  world  before  many  years. 

Uncle  Bainbridge,  who  is  very  wealthy  indeed,  affects 
more  informality  than  the  usual  self-made  man.  He 
used  to  attend  our  evening  classes  with  a  contemptuous 
expression  upon  his  face,  and  snort  at  intervals.  Once 
he  even  called  me  "Puppy!"  Then  he  thrust  his  tele- 


TOO  AMERICAN  89 

phone  arrangement  before  my  face  and  insisted  that  I 
tell  him  whether  I  was  sane  or  not. 

"Puppy!"  he  bellowed.  "Quit  apin'  the  English!  I 
get  along  with  'em  myself — without  any  nonsense! 
Treat  'em  white!  Always  treat  me  white!  No  fool 
ishness!  Puppy1/' 

My  wife  and  I  soon  discovered  that  Lady  Agatha 
and  Uncle  Bainbridge  were  on  the  most  friendly  terms. 
He  would  sit  for  hours  in  the  library,  with  his  telephone 
receiver  held  patiently  near  the  bookcase,  shouting 
questions  and  smiling  and  nodding  over  the  answers. 
Marian  and  I  were  afraid  that  Uncle  Bainbridge,  by 
his  lack  of  polish,  might  offend  Lady  Agatha.  And  at 
first  it  was  her  custom  to  hover  about  anxiously  while 
they  were  talking  to  each  other.  But  Uncle  Bain 
bridge  discovered  this,  and  resented  it  to  such  an  extent 
that  she  had  to  be  cautious  indeed. 

His  talks  with  Lady  Agatha  became  longer  and 
longer,  and  more  and  more  frequent,  until  finally  he 
received  more  of  her  attention  than  all  the  rest  of  us 
put  together.  Indeed,  we  need  not  have  worried  about 
Uncle  Bainbridge's  offending  Lady  Agatha:  the  friend 
ship  grew  closer  and  closer.  We  were  certain  finally 
that  it  was  taking  on  a  strong  tinge  of  sentimentality. 
One  day  my  wife  stopped  me  just  outside  the  library 
door  and  said  in  a  whisper,  indicating  the  general  di 
rection  of  Lady  Agatha's  bookcase  with  a  wave  of  her 
hand: 

"Henry,  those  two  old  things  in  there  are  calling 
each  other  Hiram  and  Agatha!" 


90  THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

I  listened,  and  it  was  so.  A  week  later  I  heard 
Uncle  Bainbridge  seated  by  the  bookcase,  bellowing  out 
a  sentimental  song.  He  was  having  a  great  deal  of 
difficulty  with  it,  and  in  order  that  he  might  hear  him 
self  he  was  singing  with  the  black  disk  arrangement 
held  directly  in  front  of  his  own  mouth. 

I  cannot  say  that  Uncle  Bainbridge  became  ethereal- 
ized  by  the  state  of  his  feelings  toward  Lady  Agatha, 
whatever  the  exact  state  of  his  feeling  may  have  been. 
But  he  did  change  a  little,  and  the  change  was  for  the 
better.  He  cut  out  the  bunches  of  gray  hair  from  his 
ears,  and  he  began  to  take  care  of  his  fingernails.  Lady 
Agatha  was  having  a  good  influence  upon  him. 

One  day,  as  he  and  I  were  standing  by  the  front  gate, 
he  suddenly  connected  himself  for  speech  and  roared  at 
me,  with  a  jerk  of  his  thumb  toward  the  house. 

'Tine  woman!" 

"Who  ?"I  shouted  back. 

"Aggie." 

"Why,  yes.     I  suppose  she — was." 

"No  nonsense!"  he  yelled.  "Husband  was  a  brute! 
Marry  her  myself!  In  a  minute — if  possible.  Ain't 
possible!  Shame!  Bet  she  could  make — good  dump 
lings — apple  dumplings !  Huh !" 

Uncle  Bainbridge  is  very  fond  of  apple  dumplings. 
His  final  test  of  a  woman  is  her  ability  to  make  good 
apple  dumplings.  Several  women  might  have  married 
him  had  they  been  able  to  pass  that  examination.  He 
can  pay  no  higher  compliment  to  a  woman  than  to  be 
willing  to  believe  her  able  to  make  good  dumplings. 


TOO  AMERICAN  91 

"Aggie,  in  there!"  he  roared  again,  impatient  because 
I  was  slow  in  answering.  "Dumplings!  That  kind  of 
woman — could  have  made — good  dumplings !" 

I  felt,  somehow,  that  it  was  going  a  bit  too  far  to 
imagine  Lady  Agatha  at  so  plebeian  a  task  as  making 
apple  dumplings. 

"Uncle  Bainbridge,"  I  shouted,  "the  upper  classes — 
in  England — can't  make — apple  dumplings!" 

Even  as  I  shouted  I  was  aware  that  some  bypasser, 
startled  at  our  loud  voices,  was  pausing  just  outside  the 
gate.  I  turned  to  encounter  for  a  moment  the  haughty 
glare  of  the  most  English-looking  elderly  woman  I  have 
ever  seen.  She  had  a  large,  high  nose,  and  she  was  a 
large,  high-looking  handsome  woman  generally.  She 
said  no  word  to  me;  but  as  she  stared  her  lips  moved 
ever  so  slightly.  I  fancied  that  to  herself  she  said, 
"Indeed!"  I  have  never  felt  more  utterly  superfluous, 
more  abjectly  American.  She  turned  from  me  with  an 
air  that  denied  my  existence,  a  manner  that  indicated 
that  such  things  as  I  could  not  exist,  and  it  would  be 
foolish  to  try  to  make  her  believe  they  did  exist. 
She  bowed  to  Uncle  Bainbridge,  smiled  as  he  returned 
her  bow,  and  passed  on.  Uncle  Bainbridge' s  eyes  fol 
lowed  her  admiringly. 

"'Mother  fine  woman!"  he  thundered,  so  that  she 
must  have  heard  him.  "Friend  of  mine!  Sensible 
woman!  No  frills!" 

I  tried  to  ask  him  who  she  was,  when  and  where  he 
had  become  acquainted  with  her,  and  a  dozen  other 
questions;  but  Uncle  Bainbridge  unplugged  himself, 


92     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

cutting  off  all  communication  with  the  outer  world, 
and  resolutely  refused  any  information.  That  he 
should  know  the  lady  did  not  surprise  me,  however. 
It  had  happened  several  times  since  we  had  been  in 
England  that  Uncle  Bainbridge  had  become  friendly 
with  people  whom  we  did  not  know.  We  never  got 
from  him  any  exact  idea  as  to  the  social  status  of 
these  persons,  and  indeed  we  always  found  that  he 
had  no  really  definite  ideas  on  that  subject  to  commu 
nicate. 

Our  dear  Lady  Agatha  was  almost  the  only  English 
friend  my  wife  and  I  had  made. 

My  wife  and  I  were  very  well  contented  that  Uncle 
Bainbridge's  feeling  for  Lady  Agatha  should  grow 
stronger  and  stronger.  We  argued  that  while  he  was 
so  intimately  friendly  with  dear  Lady  Agatha  he  would 
not  be  so  likely  to  fall  a  prey  to  any  person  who  might 
want  to  marry  him  for  his  wealth.  So  we  decided  to 
encourage  the  friendship  in  every  way  possible,  and 
would  have  been  only  too  glad  to  have  it  go  on  indefi 
nitely. 

"I  feel  so  at  peace  about  Uncle  Bainbridge  now,"  was 
the  way  my  wife  expressed  it,  "with  him  and  dear  Lady 
Agatha  so  wrapped  up  in  each  other." 

But  this  cheerful  condition  of  affairs  was  not  destined 
to  last  many  weeks.  One  day  my  wife  received  a  let 
ter  from  her  cousin,  Miss  Sophia  Calderwood.  Cousin 
Sophia  was  in  London,  and  would  be  with  us  on  the 
coming  Saturday.  She  had  spoken  of  the  possibility 
of  paying  us  a  visit  while  we  were  in  England,  and  of 


TOO  AMERICAN  93 

course  we  had  urged  her  to  do  so;  although  at  the  time 
the  possibility  had  seemed  rather  remote  to  us. 

Miss  Sophia  was  past  her  first  youth,  but  still  very 
girlish  at  times.  Under  her  girlishness  there  was  a 
grim  determination.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  to 
marry  Uncle  Bainbridge.  My  wife,  as  I  have  already 
said,  had  been  inclined  to  favour  the  idea,  since  it  would 
keep  strangers  from  getting  hold  of  Uncle  Bainbridge's 
money.  But  now  that  Uncle  Bainbridge  and  Lady 
Agatha  were  getting  along  so  well  together  my  wife 
had  begun  to  hope  that  Uncle  Bainbridge  would  never 
marry  anybody.  We  both  thought  the  friendship 
might  become  an  ideal,  but  none  the  less  overmaster 
ing,  passion;  one  of  those  sacred  things,  you  know,  of 
the  sort  that  keeps  a  man  single  all  his  life.  If  Uncle 
Bainbridge  remained  unmarried  out  of  regard  for  Lady 
Agatha,  we  agreed,  it  would  be  much  better  for  him 
at  his  time  of  life  than  to  wed  Miss  Sophia. 

So  we  both  considered  Miss  Sophia's  visit  rather 
inopportune.  Not  that  we  felt  that  Uncle  Bainbridge 
was  predisposed  toward  her.  On  the  contrary,  he  had 
always  manifested  more  fear  than  affection  for  her. 
But,  I  repeat,  she  was  a  determined  woman.  The  quality 
of  her  determination  needed  no  better  evidence  than 
the  fact  that  she  had,  to  put  it  vulgarly,  pursued  her 
quarry  across  the  seas.  It  was  evident  that  the  citadel 
of  Uncle  Bainbridge's  heart  was  to  undergo  a  terrible 
assault.  As  for  him,  when  he  heard  she  was  coming, 
he  only  emitted  a  noncommittal  sflort. 

Miss  Sophia,  when  she  arrived,  had  apparently  put 


94     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

in  the  months  since  we  had  seen  her  in  resolute  attempts 
at  rejuvenation.  She  was  more  girlish  than  I  had 
known  her  in  fifteen  years.  And  she  had  set  up  a  lisp. 
She  greeted  Uncle  Bainbridge  impulsively,  effusively. 

"You  dear  man,"  she  shrilled  into  his  telephone,  "you 
don't  detherve  it,  but  gueth  what  I've  brought  you  all 
the  way  acroth  the  ocean!  A  new  rethipe  for  apple 
dumplings!" 

"How?"  said  Uncle  Bainbridge.  "What  say?"  And 
when  she  repeated  it  he  said  "Umph!"  disconnected 
himself,  and  blew  his  nose  loudly.  He  rarely  said  any 
thing  to  her  but  "Umph!"  walking  away  afterward  with 
now  and  then  a  worried  backward  glance. 

When  we  told  Miss  Sophia  about  Lady  Agatha,  and 
she  finally  understood  the  intimacy  that  had  grown  up 
between  Lady  Agatha  and  Uncle  Bainbridge,  she  looked 
reproachfully  at  my  wife,  as  if  to  say,  "You  have  been 
a  traitor  to  my  cause!"  And  then  she  announced  very 
primly,  quite  forgetting  her  lisp,  "I  am  quite  sure  that 
I,  for  one,  do  not  care  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  this 
person!" 

"Cousin  Sophia,"  said  my  wife  sharply,  "what  do 
you  mean  by  that?" 

"I  think,  Cousin  Marian,  that  my  meaning  is  suffi 
ciently  clear." 

"You  forget,"  rejoined  my  wife  icily,  "that  dear  Lady 
Agatha  is  our  guest." 

Miss  Sophia  sniffed,  and  was  silent. 

"Besides,"  continued  Marian,  "what  can  you  pos 
sibly  have  against  her?" 


TOO  AMERICAN  95 


"Marian,"  said  Miss  Sophia,  "will  you  answer  me 
one  question?" 

"Perhaps,  Cousin  Sophia." 

"Cousin  Marian,  where,  I  ask  you,  where  is  Sir  Arthur 
Pelham?" 

"Why,  how  should  I  know,  Cousin  Sophia?"  My 
wife  was  genuinely  puzzled  by  the  question,  and  so 
was  I. 

"Exactly!"  And  Miss  Sophia's  voice  was  acid. 
"How  should  you  know?  I  imagine  it  is  a  point  upon 
which  Lady  Agatha  Pelham,  under  the  circumstances, 
has  not  been  very  communicative." 

"But,  Cousin  Sophia "     1  began. 

She  interrupted  me.  "Cousin  Henry,"  she  said,  "do 
you  mean  to  say  that  you  approve  of  these  goings-on 
in  your  house?  The  idea  of  a  married  woman  entering 
into  a  perfectly  open  flirtation  with  a  man,  as  this 
Lady  Agatha  Pelham  has  done!  Not  that  I  blame 
Hiram  Bainbridge;  for  men  are  susceptible  when  skill 
fully  practised  upon — especially  with  arts  which  I  have 
never  stooped  to  employ.  It  is  shameless,  Cousin 
Henry,  shameless!  If  Cousin  Marian's  mother  were 
alive,  she  would  at  least  see  that  the  children  were 
sent  back  to  America  before  they  become  contaminated 
by  this  atmosphere.  Cousin  Henry,  to  think  that  you 
have  been  so  corrupted  by  European  ways  already  that 
you  acquiesce  in  this  anomalous  relationship!" 

"I  should  hardly  call  it  that,  Cousin  Sophia,"  I  ven 
tured,  "and  for  the  life  of  me  I  cannot  see  anything 
wrong." 


96     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

It  took  me  a  little  while  to  catch  Miss  Sophia's  point 
of  view.  I  am  bound  to  say  that  she  presented  it 
rather  convincingly.  If  Sir  Arthur  had  been  alive,  she 
said,  she  would  have  seen  nothing  wrong  in  Lady 
Agatha  forming  any  ties  she  might  choose  in  the  spirit 
world.  Or  if  Sir  Arthur  had  been  in  the  spirit  world 
and  Lady  Agatha  in  the  earth  life,  she  would  have 
exonerated  Lady  Agatha  from  any  indelicacy  in  form 
ing  a  close  friendship  with  Uncle  Bainbridge.  But  since 
both  Sir  Arthur  and  Lady  Agatha  were  in  the  spirit 
life,  Lady  Agatha's  place  was  with  Sir  Arthur. 

"Aristocrat  or  not,"  she  said,  "she  is  indelicate,  she 
is  unladylike,  she  is  coarse,  or  she  would  not  carry  on 
in  this  fashion  with  a  man  to  whom  she  is  not  married." 

"I  will  not  have  dear  Lady  Agatha  insulted!"  said 
my  wife,  white  with  anger,  rising  from  the  chair  in 
which  she  had  been  sitting. 

"It  is  I  who  have  been  insulted,  by  being  asked  to 
a  house  where  such  a  brazen  and  indecent  affair  is  ac 
cepted  as  a  matter  of  course,"  said  Cousin  Sophia. 

I  hastily  interposed.  I  saw  that  my  wife  was  about 
to  cast  prudence  to  the  winds  and  tell  Miss  Sophia 
that  if  she  felt  that  way  about  it  she  might  as  well 
leave.  Miss  Sophia  is  very  well-to-do  herself,  and  my 
wife  is  her  only  near  relation.  I  did  not  fear  that  the 
rupture  would  be  permanent;  for  I  had  known  Marian 
and  Cousin  Sophia  to  go  quite  this  far  many  times 
before,  and,  indeed,  in  an  hour  they  had  both  apparently 
got  over  their  temper. 

Miss  Sophia,  although  certain  now  that  she  would 


TOO  AMERICAN  97 

receive  no  assistance  from  my  wife  in  her  siege  of  Uncle 
Bainbridge,  did  not  swerve  from  her  determination  to 
subjugate  him.  I  imagine  it  is  rather  difficult  to  give 
battle  when  your  rival  is  a  ghost :  the  very  intangibility 
of  the  tie  makes  it  hard  to  attack.  Yet  the  person 
who  is  in  the  earth  life  has  certain  advantages  also.  I 
do  not  know  whether  I  have  mentioned  it  or  not,  but 
Miss  Sophia  could  scarcely  be  called  beautiful.  One 
after  another,  all  her  life,  she  had  seen  men  upon  whom 
she  had  set  her  affection  become  the  husbands  of  other 
women,  and  in  her  duel  with  the  ghost  there  was  a 
quality  of  desperation  that  made  the  struggle,  every 
move  of  which  I  watched,  extremely  interesting.  In 
spite  of  her  announcement  that  she  did  not  care  to 
meet  Lady  Agatha,  she  learned  the  code  by  which  she 
communicated  with  us,  and  did  not  absent  herself  from 
our  gatherings  in  the  library. 

Miss  Sophia  must  have  been  desperate  indeed,  or  she 
would  not  have  resorted  to  the  trick  she  used.  About 
a  week  after  Miss  Sophia's  arrival  Lady  Agatha  sud 
denly  ceased  to  communicate  with  us.  We  grew 
alarmed,  wondering  what  could  have  happened  to  her, 
as  the  days  passed  and  the  friendly  rappings  were  not 
resumed.  In  the  light  of  what  happened  later  I  am  sure 
that  Miss  Sophia  deliberately  drove  Lady  Agatha  away. 
What  method  she  used  I  do  not  know.  But  if  she  had 
said  to  Lady  Agatha  directly  the  things  that  she  had 
said  to  us  about  her,  the  insult  would  have  been  quite 
sufficient  to  make  that  proud  and  gentle  spirit  take 
her  departure.  Likely  Miss  Sophia  got  into  com- 


98     THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

munication  with  Lady  Agatha  and  hurled  at  her  the 
bitter  question,  "Where  is  Sir  Arthur  Pelham?"  Lady 
Agatha  was  not  the  person  to  enter  into  any  vulgar 
quarrel,  nor  yet  to  vouchsafe  explanations  concerning 
her  personal  affairs. 

Several  days  after  Lady  Agatha  fell  silent  I  heard 
Uncle  Bainbridge  bellowing  forth  questions  in  the 
library.  I  was  outside  the  house  near  the  library 
window,  which  was  open.  Thinking  joyously  that 
Lady  Agatha  had  returned  to  us,  I  stepped  nearer  to 
the  window  to  make  sure.  I  saw  at  once,  as  I  peeped 
in,  that  the  bookcase,  which  set  very  near  the  window, 
had  been  slightly  moved.  Miss  Sophia,  who  was  very 
thin,  had  managed  to  introduce  herself  into  the  tri 
angular  space  behind  it — I  had  mentioned  that  it 
set  diagonally  across  one  corner.  She  was  crouched 
upon  the  floor  rapping  out  a  conversation  with  Uncle 
Bainbridge — impersonating  Lady  Agatha!  Uncle  Bain- 
bridge,  in  front  of  the  bookcase,  was  apparently  un 
suspicious;  nor  did  Miss  Sophia  suspect  that  I  saw 
her  through  the  half-inch  of  window  that  commanded 
her  hiding  place. 

"You  must  marry!"  rapped  Miss  Sophia,  in  the 
character  of  Lady  Agatha. 

"Who?"  bellowed  Uncle  Bainbridge. 

"Miss  Sophia  Calderwood,"  said  the  fake  ghost. 

"Aggie,  I'm  hanged  if  I  do!"  yelled  Uncle  Bainbridge. 
"Ask  me — something — easy!" 

"Hiram,  listen  carefully,"  began  the  false  Lady 
Agatha.  Then  she  told  him  that  this  would  be  their 


TOO  AMERICAN  99 

last  interview.  Circumstances  over  which  she  had  no 
control  compelled  her  to  depart.  She  was  to  assume 
another  phase  of  existence  upon  another  plane.  She 
could  not  explain  to  him  so  that  he  would  understand. 
But  her  interest  in  him  would  never  flag.  And  she 
knew  that  he  would  be  happier  wedded  to  some  good 
woman.  It  was  apparent  to  her  that  Miss  Sophia 
would  make  him  the  ideal  wife.  He  would  soon  learn 
to  love  Miss  Sophia.  She  had  considerable  difficulty 
in  getting  the  promise;  but  finally  Uncle  Bainbridge 
snorted  out  a  pledge  that  he  would  marry,  and  stumped 
away. 

That  night  he  went  to  London.  It  was  a  week  before 
he  returned.  I  did  not  communicate  what  I  had  seen 
and  heard  to  Marion.  The  truth  was,  I  felt  rather 
sorry  for  Miss  Sophia.  To  resort  to  such  a  trick  she 
must  have  been  desperate  indeed.  I  tried  to  imagine 
what  her  life  had  been,  and  not  condemn  her  too  harshly. 
And  besides,  if  she  was  to  marry  Uncle  Bainbridge, 
which  seemed  settled  now,  I  did  not  care  to  have  her 
aware  that  I  knew  her  secret. 

During  the  absence  of  Uncle  Bainbridge  she  became 
quietly  radiant,  as  befits  one  who  knows  that  the  battle 
is  won.  She  was  evidently  certain  that  he  would  speak 
definitely  upon  his  return. 

The  night  that  he  came  back  he  gathered  us  all  about 
him  in  the  library.  "Something  to  say!  Important !" 
he  shouted. 

We  all  assumed  attitudes  of  attention. 

'Thinking  maybe— get  married!"  said  Uncle  Bain- 


100         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

bridge.  It  was  just  like  Uncle  Bainbridge  to  announce 
the  matter  in  the  lady's  presence  before  having  formally 
asked  her;  but  I  felt  that  it  was  a  trifle  hard  on  Miss 
Sophia.  But  a  glance  at  her  reassured  me  on  that 
score.  She  was  flushed;  but  it  was  the  flush  of  triumph 
rather  than  the  flush  of  embarrassment. 

"Bought  a  brewery!"  said  Uncle  Bainbridge.  "Good 
brewery!  Good  beer!  Like  English  beer!  Like  Eng 
lish  people!" 

I  felt  that  this  was  a  little  irrelevant,  and  I  am  sure 
that  Miss  Sophia  felt  the  same  way. 

"Bought  a  castle!"  said  Uncle  Bainbridge,  warming 
to  the  work.  "Fine  castle!  Like  castles!  Fix  it  up! 
Live  in  it!  Settle  here!  Like  England!  Fine  country." 

"A  castle!  Oh,  how  lovely!"  shrilled  Miss  Sophia, 
clapping  her  hands  girlishly.  "How  lovely  for  all  of 
us!" 

"Not  invited!"  roared  Uncle  Bainbridge,  taking  us 
all  in  with  one  sweeping  gesture.  "None  of  you !" 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment. 

"Going  to  get  married!"  said  Uncle  Bainbridge,  ris 
ing  to  his  feet.  "Not  Sophia!  Caught  Sophia — behind 
bookcase!  Knew  all  the  time!  Sneaky  trick!  Marry 
fine  woman!  Henry  saw  her — over  the  fence  that  day! 
Fine  woman!  Curate's  mother  here!  Dumplings! 
Fine  dumplings!  Learned  to  make  'em  for  me!  She 
don't  want — to  get  too  thick — with  any  my  relations! 
She  says — all  of  you — are  too  American!" 

And  as  Uncle  Bainbridge  blew  his  nos^  loudly  and  sat 
down  there  was  a  sudden  rattle  of  rapping  from  the 


TOO  AMERICAN  101 

bookcase:  nothing  so  articulate  as  a  remark  in  the  code, 
but  a  sound  more  like  a  ripple  of  well-bred  laughter. 
This  was  the  last  we  ever  heard  from  Lady  Agatha, 
and  1  have  sometimes  wondered  just  what  she  meant 
by  it.  It  is  so  hard,  sometimes,  to  understand  just 
what  the  English  are  laughing  at.  y 


THE  SADDEST  MAN 

THE  bench,  the  barrel,  and  the  cracker  box  in  front  of 
Hennery  McNabb's  general  store  held  three  men,  all 
of  whom  seemed  to  be  thinking.  Two  of  them  were 
not  only  thinking  but  chewing  tobacco  as  well.  The 
third,  more  enterprising. than  the  other  two,  more  active, 
was  exerting  himself  prodigiously.  He  was  thinking, 
chewing  tobacco,  and  whittling  all  at  the  same  time. 

Two  of  the  men  were  native  and  indigenous  to  Hazel- 
ton.  They  drew  their  sustenance  from  the  black  soil 
of  the  Illinois  prairie  on  which  the  little  village  was 
perched.  They  were  as  calm  and  placid  as  the  growing 
corn  in  the  fields  round  about,  as  solid  and  self-possessed 
and  leisurely  as  the  bull-heads  in  the  little  creek  down 
at  the  end  of  Main  Street. 

The  third  man  was  a  stranger,  somewhere  between 
six  and  eight  feet  high  and  so  slender  that  one  might 
have  expected  the  bones  to  pop  through  the  skin,  if  one's 
attention  had  not  been  arrested  by  the  skin  itself.  For 
he  was  covered  and  contained  by  a  most  peculiar  skin. 
It  was  dark  and  rubbery-looking  rather  than  leathery, 
and  it  seemed  to  be  endowed  with  a  life  of  its  own  almost 
independent  of  the  rest  of  the  man's  anatomy.  When 
a  fly  perched  upon  his  cheek  he  did  not  raise  his  hand  to 
brush  it  off.  The  man  himself  did  not  move  at  all. 

102 


THE  SADDEST  MAN  103 

But  his  skin  moved.  His  skin  rose  up,  wrinkled, 
twitched,  rippled  beneath  the  fly's  feet,  and  the  fly  took 
alarm  and  went  away  from  there  as  if  an  earthquake 
had  broken  loose  under  it.  He  was  a  sad-looking  man. 
He  looked  sadder  than  the  mummy  of  an  Egyptian 
king  who  died  brooding  on  what  a  long  dry  spell  lay 
ahead  of  him. 

It  was  this  third  man  of  whom  the  other  two  men 
were  thinking,  this  melancholy  stranger  who  sat  and 
stared  through  the  thick,  humid  heat  of  the  July  day 
at  nothing  at  all,  with  grievous  eyes,  his  ego  motionless 
beneath  the  movements  of  his  rambling  skin.  He  had 
driven  up  the  road  thirty  minutes  before  in  a  flivver, 
had  bought  some  chewing  tobacco  of  Hennery  McNabb, 
and  had  set  himself  down  in  front  of  the  store  and 
chewed  tobacco  in  silence  ever  since. 

Finally  Ben  Grevis,  the  village  grave-digger  and 
janitor  of  the  church,  broke  through  the  settled  stillness 
with  a  question: 

"Mister,"  he  said,  "you  ain't  done  nothing  you're 
afraid  of  being  arrested  for,  hev  you?" 

The  stranger  slowly  turned  his  head  toward  Ben  and 
made  a  negative  sign.  He  did  not  shake  his  head  in 
negation.  He  moved  the  skin  of  his  forehead  from 
left  to  right  and  back  again  three  or  four  times.  And 
his  eyebrows  moved  as  his  skin  moved.  But  his  eyes 
remained  fixed  and  melancholy. 

"Sometimes,"  suggested  Hennery  McNabb,  who  had 
almost  tired  himself  out  whittling,  "a  man's  system 
needs  overhaulin',  same  as  a  horse's  needs  drenchin'.  I 


104         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

don't  aim  to  push  my  goods  on  to  no  man,  but  if  you 
was  feelin'  anyway  sick,  inside  or  out,  I  got  some  of 
Splain's  Liniment  for  Man  and  Beast  in  there  that 
might  fix  you  up/' 

"I  ain't  sick,"  said  the  stranger,  in  a  low  and  gentle 
voice. 

"I  never  seen  many  fellers  that  looked  as  sad  as  you 
do/'  volunteered  Ben  Grevis.  'There  was  a  mighty 
sad-lookin'  tramp,  that  resembled  you  in  the  face  some, 
was  arrested  here  for  bein'  drunk  eight  or  nine  years 
ago,  only  he  wasn't  as  tall  as  you  an'  his  skin  was  dif 
ferent.  After  Si  Emery,  our  city  marshal,  had  kep' 
him  in  the  lock-up  over  Sunday  and  turned  him  loose 
again,  it  come  to  light  he  was  wanted  over  in  Fway 
for  killin'  a  feller  with  a  piece  of  railroad  iron." 

"I  ain't  killed  anybody  with  any  railroad  iron  over 
in  I'way,"  said  the  lengthy  man.  And  he  added,  with 
a  sigh:  "Nor  nowheres  else,  neither." 

Hennery  McNabb,  who  disagreed  with  everyone  on 
principle — he  was  the  Village  Atheist,  and  proud  of  it — 
addressed  himself  to  Ben  Grevis.  'This  feller  ain't 
nigh  as  sad-lookin'  as  that  tramp  looked,"  said  Hennery. 
"I've  knowed  any  number  of  fellers  sadder-lookin'  than 
this  feller  here." 

"I  didn't  say  this  feller  here  was  the  saddest-lookin' 
feller  I  ever  seen,"  said  Ben  Grevis.  "All  I  meant  was 
that  he  is  sadder-lookin'  than  the  common  run  of  fel 
lers."  While  Hennery  disagreed  with  all  the  world,  Ben 
seldom  disagreed  with  any  one  but  Hennery.  They 
would  argue  by  the  hour,  on  religious  matters,  always 


THE  SADDEST  MAN  105 

beginning  with  Hennery's  challenge:  "Ben  Grevis,  tell 
me  just  one  thing  if  you  can,  where  did  Cain  get  his 
wife?"  and  always  ending  with  Ben's  statement:  "I 
believe  the  Book  from  kiver  to  kiver." 

The  tall  man  with  the  educated  skin — it  was  edu 
cated,  very  evidently,  for  with  a  contraction  of  the  hide 
on  the  back  of  his  hand  he  nonchalantly  picked  up  a 
shaving  that  had  blown  his  way — spoke  to  Ben  and 
Hennery  in  the  soft  and  mild  accents  that  seemed 
habitual  to  him: 

"Where  did  you  two  see  sadder-lookin'  fellers  than 
I  be?" 

"Over  in  Indianny,"  said  Hennery,  "there's  a  man  so 
sad  that  you're  one  of  these  here  laughin'  jackasses 
Alongside  o'  him." 

And,  being  encouraged,  Hennery  proceeded. 

This  here  feller  (said  Hennery  McNabb)  lived  over 
in  Brown  County,  Indianny,  but  he  didn't  come  from 
there  original.  He  come  from  down  in  Kentucky  some- 
wheres  and  his  name  was  Peevy,  Bud  Peevy.  He  was 
one  of  them  long,  lank  fellers,  like  you,  stranger,  but 
he  wasn't  as  long  and  his  skin  didn't  sort  o'  wander 
around  and  wag  itself  like  it  was  a  tail. 

It  was  from  the  mountain  districts  he  come.  I  was 
visitin'  a  brother  of  mine  in  the  county-seat  town  of 
Brown  County  then,  and  this  Bud  Peevy  was  all  swelled 
up  with  pride  when  I  first  knowed  him.  He  was  proud 
of  two  things.  One  was  that  he  was  the  champeen 
corn-licker  drinker  in  Kentucky.  It  was  so  he  give 


106         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

himself  out.  And  the  other  thing  he  was  prouder  yet  of. 
It  was  the  fact,  if  fact  it  was,  that  he  was  the  Decidin' 
Vote  in  a  national  election — that  there  election  you  all 
remember,  the  first  time  Bryan  run  for  President  and 
McKinley  was  elected. 

This  here  Bud  Peevy,  you  understand,  wasn't  really 
sad  when  I  first  knowed  him:  he  only  looked  sad.  His 
sadness  that  matched  his  innard  feelin's  up  to  his  out 
ward  looks  come  on  to  him  later.  He  was  all-fired 
proud  when  I  first  knowed  him.  He  went  expandin' 
and  extendin'  of  himself  around  everywheres  tellin' 
them  Indianny  people  how  it  was  him,  personal,  that 
elected  McKinley  and  saved  the  country  from  that 
there  free-silver  ruination.  And  the  fuller  he  was  of 
licker,  the  longer  he  made  this  here  story,  and  the  fuller, 
as  you  might  say,  of  increditable  strange  events. 

Accordin'  to  him,  on  that  election  day  in  1896  he 
hadn't  planned  to  go  and  vote,  for  it  was  quite  a  ways 
to  the  polls  from  his  place  and  his  horse  had  fell  lame 
and  he  didn't  feel  like  walkin'.  He  figgered  his  district 
would  go  safe  for  McKinley,  anyhow,  and  he  wouldn't 
need  to  vote.  He  was  a  strong  Republican,  and  when 
a  Kentuckian  is  a  Republican  there  ain't  no  stronger 
kind. 

But  along  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  a  man 
comes  ridin'  up  to  his  house  with  his  horse  all  a  lather 
of  foam  and  sweat,  and  the  horse  was  one  of  these  here 
Kentucky  thoroughbred  race  horses  that  must  'a'  trav 
elled  nigh  a  mile  a  minute,  to  hear  Bud  Peevy  tell  of  it, 
and  that  horse  gives  one  groan  like  a  human  bein'  and 


THE  SADDEST  MAN  107 

falls  dead  at  Bud  Peevy's  feet  afore  the  rider  can  say 
a  word,  and  the  rider  is  stunned. 

But  Bud  Peevy  knowed  him  for  a  Republican  county 
committeeman,  and  he  poured  some  corn  licker  down 
his  throat  and  he  revived  to  life  again.  The  feller  yells 
to  Bud  as  soon  as  he  can  get  his  breath  to  go  to  town 
and  vote,  quick,  as  the  polls  will  close  in  an  hour,  and 
everybody  else  in  that  district  has  voted  but  Bud, 
and  everyone  has  been  kep'  track  of,  and  the  vote  is 
a  tie. 

It's  twelve  miles  to  the  pollin'  place  from  Bud's  farm 
in  the  hills  and  it  is  a  rough  country,  but  Bud  strikes 
out  runnin'  acrost  hills  and  valleys  with  three  pints  of 
corn  licker  in  his  pockets  for  to  refresh  himself  from 
time  to  time.  Bud,  he  allowed  he  was  the  best  runner 
in  Kentucky,  and  he  wouldn't  'a'  had  any  trouble,  even 
if  he  did  have  to  run  acrost  mountains  and  hurdle 
rocks,  to  make  the  twelve  miles  in  an  hour,  but  there 
was  a  lot  of  cricks  and  rivers  in  that  country  and  there 
had  been  a  gosh-a-mighty  big  rain  the  night  before 
and  all  them  cricks  had  turned  into  rivers  and  all  them 
rivers  had  turned  into  roarin'  oceans  and  Niagara 
catarac's.  But  Bud,  he  allows  he  is  the  best  swimmer 
in  Kentucky,  and  when  he  comes  to  a  stream  he  takes 
a  swig  of  corn  licker  and  jumps  in  and  swims  acrost, 
boots  and  all — for  he  was  runnin'  in  his  big  cowhides, 
strikin'  sparks  of  fire  from  the  mountains  with  every 
leap  he  made. 

Five  times  he  was  shot  at  by  Democrats  in  the  first  six 
miles,  and  in  the  seventh  mile  the  shootin'  was  almost 


108         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

continual,  and  three  or  four  times  he  was  hit,  but  he 
kep'  on.  It  seems  the  Democrats  had  got  wind  he  had 
been  sent  for  to  turn  the  tide  and  a  passel  of  'em  was 
out  among  the  hills  with  rifles  to  stop  him  if  they  could. 
But  he  is  in  too  much  of  a  hurry  to  bandy  words  with 
'em,  and  he  didn't  have  his  gun  along,  which  he  re 
gretted,  he  says,  as  he  is  the  best  gun  fighter  in  Ken 
tucky  and  he  keeps  on  a-runnin'  and  a-swimmin'  and 
a-jumpin'  cricks  and  a-hurdlin'  rocks  with  the  bullets 
whizzin'  around  him  and  the  lightnin'  strikin'  in  his 
path,  for  another  big  storm  had  come  up,  and  no  power 
on  this  here  earth  could  head  him  off,  he  says,  for  it 
come  to  him  like  a  Voice  from  on  High  he  was  the  pre 
ordained  messenger  and  hero  who  was  goin'  to  turn  the 
tide  and  save  the  country  from  this  here  free-silver 
ruination.  About  two  miles  from  the  pollin'  place,  jist 
as  he  jumps  into  the  last  big  river,  two  men  plunges 
into  the  water  after  him  with  dirks,  and  one  of  them 
he  gets  quick,  but  the  other  one  drags  Bud  under  the 
water,  stabbin'  and  jabbin'  at  him.  There  is  a  terrible 
stabbin'  and  stickin'  battle  way  down  under  the  water, 
which  is  runnin'  so  fast  that  big  stones  the  size  of  a  cow 
is  being  rolled  down  stream,  but  Bud  he  don't  mind  the 
stones,  and  he  can  swim  under  water  as  well  as  on  top 
of  it,  he  says,  and  he's  the  best  knife  fighter  in  Kentucky, 
he  says,  and  he  soon  fixes  that  feller  and  swims  to  shore 
with  his  knife  in  his  teeth,  and  now  he's  only  got  one 
more  mountain  to  cross. 

But  a  kind  of  hurricane  has  sprung  up  and  turned 
into  a  cyclone  in  there  among  the  hills,  and  as  he  goes 


THE  SADDEST  MAN  109 

over  the  top  of  that  last  mountain,  lickety-split,  in  the 
dark  and  wind  and  rain,  he  blunders  into  a  whole  passel 
of  rattlesnakes  that  has  got  excited  by  the  elements. 
But  he  fit  his  way  through  'em,  thankin'  God  he  had 
nearly  a  quart  of  licker  left  to  take  for  the  eight  or  ten 
bites  he  got,  and  next  there  rose  up  in  front  of  him 
two  of  them  big  brown  bears,  and  they  was  wild 
with  rage  because  the  storm  had  been  slingin'  boulders 
at  'em.  One  of  them  bears  he  sticked  with  his  knife 
and  made  short  work  of,  but  the  other  one  give  him 
quite  a  tussel,  Bud  says,  afore  he  conquered  it  and 
straddled  it.  And  it  was  a  lucky  thing  for  him,  he  says, 
that  he  caught  that  bear  in  time,  for  he  was  gittin'  a 
leetle  weak  with  loss  of  blood  and  snake  bites  and  bat- 
tlin'  with  the  elements.  Bud,  he  is  the  best  rider  in 
Kentucky,  and  it  wasn't  thirty  seconds  afore  that  bear 
knowed  a  master  was  a-ridin'  of  it,  and  in  five  minutes 
more  Bud,  he  gallops  up  to  that  pollin'  place,  right 
through  the  heart  of  the  hurricane,  whippin'  that  bear 
with  rattlesnakes  to  make  it  go  faster,  and  he  jumps  off 
and  cracks  his  boot  heels  together  and  gives  a  yell  and 
casts  the  decidin'  vote  into  the  ballot  box.  He  had 
made  it  with  nearly  ten  seconds  to  spare. 

Well,  accordin'  to  Bud  Peevy  that  there  one  vote  car 
ries  the  day  for  McKinley  in  that  county  and  not  only 
in  that  county  alone,  but  in  that  electorial  district,  and 
that  electorial  district  gives  McKinley  the  State  of 
Kentucky,  which  no  Republican  had  ever  carried  Ken 
tucky  for  President  for  afore.  And  two  or  three  other 
States  was  hangin'  back  keepin'  their  polls  open  late 


110         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

to  see  how  Kentucky  would  go,  and  when  it  was  flashed 
by  telegraph  all  over  the  country  that  Bud  Peevy  was 
carryin'  Kentucky  for  McKinley,  them  other  States 
joined  in  with  Kentucky  and  cast  their  electorial  votes 
that-a-way,  too,  and  McKinley  was  elected  President. 

So  Bud  figgers  he  has  jist  naturally  elected  that  man 
President  and  saved  the  country — he  is  the  one  that  was 
the  Decidin'  Vote  for  this  whole  derned  republic.  And, 
as  I  said,  he  loves  to  tell  about  it.  It  was  in  1896  that 
Bud  saved  the  country  and  it  was  in  1900  that  he  moved 
to  Brown  County,  Indianny,  and  started  in  with  his 
oratin'  about  what  a  great  man  he  was,  and  givin'  his 
political  opinions  about  this,  that  and  the  other  thing, 
like  he  might  'a'  been  President  himself.  Bein'  the  De 
cidin'  Vote  that-a-way  made  him  think  he  jist  about 
run  this  country  with  his  ideas. 

He's  been  hangin'  around  the  streets  in  his  new  home, 
the  county  town  of  Brown  County,  for  five  or  six  weeks, 
in  the  summer  of  1900,  tellin'  what  a  great  feller  he  is, 
and  bein'  admired  by  everybody,  when  one  day  the 
news  comes  that  the  U.  S.  Census  for  1900  has  been 
pretty  nigh  finished,  and  that  the  Centre  of  Population 
for  the  whole  country  falls  in  Brown  County.  Well, 
you  can  understand  that's  calculated  to  make  folks  in 
that  county  pretty  darned  proud. 

But  the  proudest  of  them  all  was  a  feller  by  the 
name  of  Ezekiel  Humphreys.  It  seems  these  here 
government  sharks  had  it  figgered  out  that  the  centre 
of  population  fell  right  on  to  where  this  here  Zeke 
Humphrey's  farm  was,  four  or  five  miles  out  of  town. 


THE  SADDEST  MAM  111 

And  Zeke,  he  figgers  that  he,  himself,  personal,  has  be 
come  the  Centre  of  Population. 

Zeke  hadn't  never  been  an  ambitious  man.  He 
hadn't  never  gone  out  and  courted  any  glory  like  that, 
nor  schemed  for  it  nor  thought  of  it.  But  he  was  a  fel 
ler  that  thought  well  enough  of  himself,  too.  He  had 
been  a  steady,  hard-workin'  kind  of  man  all  his  life, 
mindin'  his  own  business  and  payin'  his  debts,  and  when 
this  here  glory  comes  to  him,  bein'  chose  out  of  ninety 
millions  of  people,  as  you  might  say,  to  be  the  one  and 
only  Centre  of  Population,  he  took  it  as  his  just  due  and 
was  proud  of  it. 

"You  see  how  the  office  seeks  the  man,  if  the  man 
is  worthy  of  it!"  says  Zeke.  And  everybody  liked  Zeke 
that  knowed  him,  and  was  glad  of  his  glory. 

Well,  one  day  this  here  Decidin'  Vote,  Bud  Peevy, 
comes  to  town  to  fill  himself  up  on  licker  and  tell  how 
he  saved  the  country,  and  he  is  surprised  because  he 
don't  get  nobody  to  listen  to  him.  And  pretty  soon  he 
sees  the  reason  for  it.  There's  a  crowd  of  people  on 
Main  Street  all  gathered  around  Zeke  Humphreys  and 
all  congratulatin'  him  on  being  the  Centre  of  Popula 
tion.  And  they  was  askin'  his  opinion  on  politics  and 
things.  Zeke  is  takin'  it  modest  and  sensible,  but  like 
a  man  that  knowed  he  deserved  it,  too.  Bud  Peevy,  he 
listens  for  a  while,  and  he  sniffs  and  snorts,  but  nobody 
pays  any  'tention  to  him.  Finally,  he  can't  keep  his 
mouth  shut  any  longer,  and  he  says: 

"Politics!  Politics!  To  hear  you  talk,  a  fellow'd 
think  you  really  got  a  claim  to  talk  about  politics!" 


112          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

Zeke,  he  never  was  any  trouble  hunter,  but  he  never 
run  away  from  it,  neither. 

"Mebby,"  says  Zeke,  not  het  up  any,  but  right  serious 
and  determined-like,  "mebby  you  got  more  claim  to 
talk  about  politics  than  I  have?" 

"I  shore  have,"  says  Bud  Peevy.  "I  reckon  I  got 
more  claim  to  be  hearkened  to  about  politics  than  any 
other  man  in  this  here  whole  country.  I'm  the  De 
cidin'  Vote  of  this  here  country,  I  am!" 

"Well,  gosh-ding  my  melts!"  says  Zeke  Humphreys. 
"You  ain't  proud  of  yourself,  nor  nothin',  are  you?" 

"No  prouder  nor  what  I  got  a  right  to  be,"  says  Bud 
Peevy,  "considcrin'  what  I  done." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  be!"  says  Zeke  Humphreys.  "You 
been  proudin'  yourself  around  here  for  weeks  now  all 
on  account  o'  that  decidin'  vote  business.  And  any 
body  might  'a'  been  a  Decidin'  Vote.  A  Decidin'  Vote 
don't  amount  to  nothin'  Alongside  a  Centre  of  Popula 
tion." 

"Where  would  your  derned  population  be  if  I  hadn't 
went  and  saved  this  here  country  for  'em?"  asks  Bud 
Peevy. 

"Be?"  says  Zeke.  "They'd  be  right  where  they  be 
now,  if  you'd  never  been  born  nor  heard  tell  on,  that's 
where  they'd  be.  And  I'd  be  the  centre  of  'em,  jist 
like  I  be  now!" 

"And  what  air  you  now?"  says  Bud  Peevy,  mighty 
mean  and  insultin'-like.  "You  ain't  nothin'  but  a  ac 
cident,  you  ain't!  What  I  got,  I  fit  for  and  I  earnt. 
But  you  ain't  nothin'  but  a  happenin'!" 


THE  SADDEST  MAN  113 

Them  seemed  like  mighty  harsh  words  to  Zeke,  for 
he  figgered  his  glory  was  due  to  him  on  account  of  the 
uprighteous  life  he  always  led,  and  so  he  says : 

"Mister,  anybody  that  says  I  ain't  nothin'  but  a  hap- 
penin'  is  a  liar." 

"I  kin  lick  my  weight  in  rattlesnakes,"  yells  Bud 
Peevy,  "and  I've  done  it  afore  this!  And  I  tells  you 
once  again,  and  flings  it  in  your  face,  that  you  ain't 
nothin'  but  a  accidental  happening" 

"You're  a  liar,  then!"  says  Zeke. 

With  that  Bud  Peevy  jerks  his  coat  oif  and  spits  on  to 
his  hands. 

,  "Set  yo'self,  man,"  says  he;  "the  whirlwind's  comin' !" 
And  he  makes  a  rush  at  Zeke.  Bud  is  a  good  deal 
taller'n  Zeke,  but  Zeke  is  sort  o'  bricky-red  and  chunky 
like  a  Dutch  Reformed  Church,  and  when  this  here 
Peevy  comes  on  to  him  with  a  jump  Zeke  busts  him  one 
right  on  to  the  eye.  It  makes  an  uncheerful  noise  like 
I  heard  one  time  when  Dan  Lively,  the  butcher  acrost 
the  street  there,  hit  a  steer  in  the  head  with  a  sledge 
hammer.  Bud,  he  sets  down  sudden,  and  looks  sur 
prised  out  of  the  eye  that  hadn't  went  to  war  yet.  But 
he  must  'a'  figgered  it  was  a  accident  for  he  don't  set 
there  long.  He  jumps  up  and  rushes  again. 

"I'm  a  wildcat!     I'm  a  wildcat!"  yells  this  here  Bud. 

And  Zeke,  he  collisions  his  fist  with  the  other  eye, 
and  Bud  sets  down  the  second  time.  I  won't  say  this 
here  Zeke's  hands  was  as  big  as  a  quarter  of  beef.  The 
fact  is,  they  wasn't  that  big.  But  I  seen  that  fight  my 
self,  and  there  was  somethin'  about  the  size  and  shape 


114    THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

of  his  fist  when  it  was  doubled  up  that  kind  o'  reminded 
me  of  a  quarter  of  beef.  Only  his  fists  was  harder  than 
a  quarter  of  beef.  I  guess  Zeke's  fists  was  about  as 
hard  as  a  hickory  log  that  has  been  gettin'  itself  soaked 
and  dried  and  seasoned  for  two  or  three  years.  I  heard 
a  story  about  Zeke  and  a  mule  that  kicked  him  one 
time,  but  I  didn't  see  it  myself  and  I  dunno'  as  it's  all 
true.  The  word  was  that  Zeke  jist  picked  up  that  mule 
after  it  kicked  him  and  frowned  at  it  and  told  it  if  it 
ever  done  that  again  he  would  jist  naturally  pull  off 
the  leg  that  it  kicked  him  with  and  turn  it  loose  to  hop 
away  on  three  legs,  and  he  cuffed  that  mule  thorough 
and  thoughtful  and  then  he  took  it  by  one  hind  leg  and 
fore  leg  and  jounced  it  against  a  stone  barn  and  told 
it  to  behave  its  fool  self.  It  always  seemed  to  me  that 
story  had  been  stretched  a  mite,  but  that  was  one  of  the 
stories  they  telled  on  Zeke. 

But  this  here  Bud  Peevy  is  game.  He  jumps  up 
again  with  his  two  eyes  lookin'  like  a  skillet  full  of  tripe 
and  onions  and  makes  another  rush  at  Zeke.  And  this 
time  he  gets  his  hands  on  to  Zeke  and  they  rastles  back 
and  forth.  But  Bud,  while  he  is  a  strong  fellow,  he 
ain't  no  ways  as  strong  as  a  mule  even  if  he  is  jist  as 
sudden  and  wicked,  so  Zeke  throws  him  down  two  or 
three  times.  Bud,  he  kicks  Zeke  right  vicious  and 
spiteful  into  the  stomach,  and  when  he  done  that  Zeke 
began  to  get  a  little  cross.  So  he  throwed  Bud  down 
again  and  this  time  he  set  on  top  of  him. 

"Now,  then/'  says  Zeke,  bangin'  Bud's  head  on  to  the 
sidewalk,  ''am  I  a  happenin',  or  am  I  on  purpose?" 


THE  SADDEST  MAN  115 

"Lemme  up,"  says  Bud.  "Leggo  my  whiskers  and 
lemme  up!  You  ain't  licked  me  any,  but  them  ol' 
wounds  I  got  savin'  this  country  is  goin'  to  bust  open 
ag'in.  I  kin  feel  'em  bustin'." 

"I  didn't  start  this,"  says  Zeke,  "but  I'm  a-goin'  to 
finish  it.  Now,  then,  am  I  a  accident,  or  was  I  meant?" 

"It's  a  accident  you  ever  got  me  down,"  says  Bud, 
"Whether  you  are  a  accident  yourself  or  not." 

Zeke  jounces  his  head  on  the  sidewalk  some  more 
and  he  says:  "You  answer  better  nor  that!  You  go 
further!  You  tell  me  whether  I'm  on  purpose  or 
not!" 

"You  was  meant  for  somethin',"  says  Bud,  "but  you 
can't  make  me  say  what!  You  can  bang  my  head  off 
and  I  won't  say  what.  Two  or  three  of  them  bullets 
went  into  my  neck  right  where  you're  bendin'  it  and  I 
feel  them  ol'  wounds  bustin'  open." 

"I  don't  believe  you  got  no  ol'  wounds,"  says  Zeke, 
"and  I  don't  believe  you  ever  saved  no  country  and  I'm 
gonna  keep  you  here  till  I've  banged  some  sense  and 
politeness  into  your  head." 

Bud,  he  gives  a  yell  and  a  twist,  and  bites  Zeke's 
wrist;  Zeke  slapped  him  some,  and  Bud  ketched  one  of 
Zeke's  fingers  into  his  mouth  and  nigh  bit  it  off  afore 
Zeke  got  it  loose.  Zeke,  he  was  a  patient  man  and  right 
thoughtful  and  judicious,  but  he  had  got  kind  o'  cross 
when  Bud  kicked  him  into  the  stomach,  and  now  this 
biting  made  him  a  leetle  mite  crosser.  I  cal'ated  if 
Bud  wasn't  careful  he'd  get  Zeke  really  riled  up  pretty 
soon  and  get  his  fool  self  hurt.  Zeke,  he  takes  Bud  by 


116         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

the  ears  and  slams  his  head  till  I  thought  the  boards  in 
that  sidewalk  was  goin'  to  be  busted. 

"Now,  then/'  says  Zeke,  lettin'  up  for  a  minute,  "has 
the  Centre  of  Population  got  a  right  to  talk  politics,  or 
ain't  he?  You  say  he  is  got  a  right,  or  I  mebby  will 
fergit  myself  and  get  kind  o'  rough  with  you/' 

"This  here  country  I  saved  is  a  free  country,"  says 
Bud  Peevy,  kind  o'  sick  an'  feeble,  "and  any  one  that 
lives  in  this  here  country  I  saved  has  got  a  right  to  talk 
politics,  I  reckon." 

Zeke,  he  took  that  for  an  answer  and  got  good-natured 
and  let  Bud  up.  Bud,  he  wipes  the  blood  ofT'n  his  face 
and  ketches  his  breath  an'  gits  mean  again  right  away. 

"If  my  constitution  hadn't  been  undermined  savin* 
this  here  country,"  says  Bud,  "you  never  could  'a'  got 
me  down  like  that!  And  you  ain't  heard  the  end  of 
this  argyment  yet,  neither!  I'm  a-goin'  for  my  gun, 
and  we'll  shoot  it  out!" 

But  the  townspeople  interfered  and  give  Bud  to 
understand  he  couldn't  bring  no  guns  into  a  fight,  like 
mebby  he  would  'a'  done  in  them  mountain  regions  he 
was  always  talkin'  about;  an'  told  him  if  he  was  to  start 
gunnin'  around  they  would  get  up  a  tar-and-feather 
party  and  he  would  be  the  reception  committee.  They 
was  all  on  Zeke's  side  and  they'd  all  got  kind  o'  tired 
listenin'  to  Bud  Peevy,  anyhow.  Zeke  was  their  own 
hometown  man,  and  so  they  backed  him.  All  that 
glory  had  come  to  Brown  County  and  they  wasn't  goin' 
to  see  it  belittled  by  no  feller  from  another  place. 

Bud  Peevy,  for  two  or  three  weeks,  can't  understand 


THE  SADDEST  MAN  117 

his  glory  has  left  him,  and  he  goes  braggin'  around 
worse  than  ever.  But  people  only  grins  and  turns 
away;  nobody  will  hark  to  him  when  he  talks.  When 
Bud  tries  to  tell  his  story  it  gets  to  be  quite  the  thing 
to  look  at  him  and  say:  "Lemme  up!  Leggo  my  whisk 
ers!  Lemme  up!" — like  he  said  when  Zeke  Humphreys 
had  him  down.  And  so  it  was  he  come  to  be  a  byword 
around  town.  Kids  would  yell  at  him  on  the  street, 
to  plague  him,  and  he  would  get  mad  and  chase  them 
kids,  and  when  folks  would  see  him  runnin'  after  the 
kids  they  would  yell:  "Hey!  Hey,  Bud  Peevy!  You 
could  go  faster  if  you  was  to  ride  a  bear!"  Or  else  they 
would  yell:  "Whip  yourself  with  a  rattlesnake,  Bud, 
and  get  up  some  speed!" 

His  glory  had  been  so  big  and  so  widespread  for  so 
long  that  when  it  finally  went,  there  jist  wasn't  a  darned 
thing  left  to  him.  His  heart  busted  in  his  bosom.  He 
wouldn't  talk  about  nothin'.  He  jist  slinked  around. 
He  was  most  pitiful  because  he  wasn't  used  to  misfor 
tune  like  some  people. 

And  he  couldn't  pack  up  his  goods  and  move  away 
from  that  place.  For  he  had  come  there  to  live  with  a 
married  daughter  and  his  son-in-law,  and  if  he  left  there 
he  would  have  to  get  a  steady  job  working  at  somethin' 
and  support  himself.  And  Bud  didn't  want  to  risk 
that.  For  that  wild  run  he  made  the  time  he  saved  the 
country  left  him  strained  clean  down  to  the  innards  of 
his  constitution,  he  says,  and  he  wa'n't  fit  to  work.  But 
the  thing  that  put  the  finishing  touches  on  to  him  was 
when  a  single  daughter  that  he  had  fell  into  love  with 


118          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

Zeke  Humphreys,  who  was  a  widower,  and  married  her 
self  to  him.  His  own  flesh  and  blood  has  disowned  him, 
Bud  says.  So  he  turns  sad,  and  he  was  the  saddest  man 
I  ever  seen.  He  was  sadder  than  you  look  to  be, 
stranger. 

The  stranger  with  the  educated  skin  breathed  a  gentle 
sigh  at  the  conclusion  of  Hennery's  tale  of  the  Deciding 
Vote  and  the  Centre  of  Population,  and  then  he  said: 

"I  don't  doubt  Bud  Peevy  was  a  sad  man.  But 
there's  sadder  things  than  what  happened  to  Bud 
Peevy.  There's  things  that  touches  the  heart  closer." 

"Stranger,"  said  Ben  Grevis,  "you've  said  it!  But 
Hennery,  here,  don't  know  anything  about  the  heart 
bein'  touched." 

Hennery  McNabb  seemed  to  enjoy  the  implication, 
rather  than  to  resent  it.  Ben  Grevis  continued: 

"A  sadder  thing  than  what  happened  to  Bud  Peevy 
is  goin'  on  a  good  deal  nearer  home  than  Indianny. 

"I  ain't  the  kind  of  a  feller  that  goes  running  to 
Indianny  and  to  Kentucky  and  all  over  the  known 
earth  for  examples  of  sadness,  nor  nothin'  else.  We 
got  as  good  a  country  right  here  in  Illinois  as  there  is 
on  top  of  the  earth  and  I'm  one  that  always  sticks  up 
for  home  folks  and  home  industries.  Hennery,  here, 
ain't  got  any  patriotism.  And  he  ain't  got  any  judg 
ment.  He  don't  know  what's  in  front  of  him.  But 
right  here  in  our  home  county,  not  five  miles  from 
where  we  are,  sets  a  case  of  sadness  that  is  one  of 
the  saddest  I  ever  seen  or  knowed  about. 


THE  SADDEST  MAN  119 

"Hennery,  here,  he  don't  know  how  sad  it  is,  for  he's 
got  no  finer  feelin's.  A  free  thinker  like  Hennery  can't 
be  expected  to  have  no  finer  feelin's.  And  this  case  is 
a  case  of  a  woman." 

"A  woman!"  sighed  the  stranger.  "If  a  woman  is 
mixed  up  with  it,  it  could  have  finer  feelin's  and  sad 
ness  in  it!"  And  a  ripple  of  melancholy  ran  over  him 
from  head  to  foot. 

This  here  woman  (said  Ben  Grevis)  lives  over  to 
Hickory  Grove,  in  the  woods,  and  everybody  for  miles 
around  calls  her  Widder  Watson. 

Widder  Watson,  she  has  buried  four  or  five  husbands, 
and  you  can  see  her  any  day  that  it  ain't  rainin'  settin' 
in  the  door  of  her  little  house,  smokin'  of  her  corn-cob 
pipe,  and  lookin'  at  their  graves  and  speculatin'  and 
wonderin'.  I  talked  with  her  a  good  deal  from  time  to 
time  durin'  the  last  three  or  four  years,  and  the  things 
she  is  speculatin'  on  is  life  and  death,  and  them  hus 
bands  she  has  buried,  and  children.  But  that  ain't 
what  makes  her  so  sad.  It's  wishin'  for  somethin'  that, 
it  seems  like,  never  can  be,  that  is  makin'  her  so  sad. 

She  has  got  eighteen  or  twenty  children,  Widder  Wat 
son  has,  runnin'  around  them  woods.  Them  woods  is 
jist  plumb  full  of  her  children.  You  wouldn't  dare  for 
to  try  to  shoot  a  rabbit  anywhere  near  them  woods  for 
fear  of  hittin'  one. 

And  all  them  children  has  got  the  most  beautiful  and 
peculiar  names,  that  Widder  Watson  got  out  of  these 
here  drug-store  almanacs.  She's  been  a  great  reader 


120          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

all  her  life,  Widder  Watson  has,  but  all  her  readin'  has 
been  done  in  these  here  almanacs.  You  know  how 
many  different  kinds  of  almanacs  there  always  are 
layin'  around  drug-stores,  I  guess.  Well,  every  two  or 
three  months  Widder  Watson  goes  to  town  and  gets  a 
new  bale  of  them  almanacs  and  then  she  sets  and  reads 
'em.  She  goes  to  drug-stores  in  towns  as  far  as  twelve 
or  fifteen  miles  away  to  keep  herself  supplied. 

She  never  cared  much  for  readin'  novels  and  story 
papers,  she  tells  me.  What  she  wants  is  somethin'  that 
has  got  some  true  information  in  it,  about  the  way  the 
sun  rises,  and  the  tides  in  the  oceans  she  has  never  saw, 
and  when  the  eclipses  is  going  to  be,  and  different  kinds 
of  diseases  new  and  old,  and  receipts  for  preserves  and 
true  stories  about  how  this  or  that  wonderful  remedy 
come  to  be  discovered.  Mebby  it  was  discovered  by 
the  Injuns  in  this  country,  or  mebby  it  was  discovered 
by  them  there  Egyptians  in  the  old  country  away  back 
in  King  Pharaoh's  time,  and  mebby  she's  got  some  of 
the  same  sort  of  yarbs  and  plants  right  there  in  her  own 
woods.  Well,  Widder  Watson,  she  likes  that  kind  o' 
readin',  and  she  knows  all  about  the  Seven  Wonders  of 
the  World,  and  all  the  organs  and  ornaments  inside  the 
human  carcass,  and  the  kind  o'  pains  they  are  likely 
to  have  and  all  about  what  will  happen  to  you  if  the 
stars  says  this  or  that  and  how  long  the  Mississippi 
River  is  and  a  lot  of  them  old-time  prophecies  of  signs 
and  marvels  what  is  to  come  to  pass  yet.  You  know 
about  what  the  readin'  is  in  them  almanacs,  mebby. 

Widder  Watson,  she  has  got  a  natural  likin'  for  fine 


THE  SADDEST  MAN  121 

words,  jist  the  same  as  some  has  got  a  gift  for  hand- 
paintin'  or  playin'  music  or  recitin'  pieces  of  poetry  or 
anything  like  that.  And  so  it  was  quite  natural,  when 
her  kids  come  along,  she  names  'em  after  the  names 
in  her  favourite  readin'  matter.  And  she  gets  so  she 
thinks  more  of  the  names  of  them  kids  than  of  nearly 
anything  else.  I  ain't  sayin'  she  thinks  more  of  the 
names  than  she  does  of  the  kids,  but  she  likes  the  names 
right  next  to  the  kids.  Every  time  she  had  a  baby  she 
used  to  sit  and  think  for  weeks  and  weeks,  so  she  tells 
me,  for  to  get  a  good  name  for  that  baby,  and  select  and 
select  and  select  out  of  them  almanacs. 

Her  oldest  girl,  that  everybody  calls  Zody,  is  named 
Zodiac  by  rights.  And  then  there's  Carty,  whose  real 
name  is  Cartilege,  and  Anthy,  whose  full  name  is  An 
thrax,  and  so  on.  There's  Peruna  and  Epidermis  and 
Epidemic  and  Pisces. 

I  dunno  as  I  can  remember  all  them  swell  names. 
There's  Perry,  whose  real  name  is  Perihelion,  and  there's 
Whitsuntide  and  Tonsillitis  and  Opodeldoc  and  a  lot 
more — I  never  could  remember  all  them  kids. 

And  there  ain't  goin'  to  be  no  more  on  'em,  for  the 
fact  of  the  matter  seems  to  be  that  Widder  Watson 
ain't  likely  to  ever  get  another  husband.  It's  been 
about  four  years  since  Jim  Watson,  her  last  one,  died, 
and  was  buried  in  there  amongst  the  hickory  second- 
growth  and  hazel  bushes,  and  since  that  day  there  ain't 
nobody  come  along  that  road  a-courtin'  Widder  Wat 
son.  And  that's  what  makes  her  sad.  She  can't  un 
derstand  it,  never  havin'  been  without  a  husband  for  so 


122          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

long  before,  and  she  sets  and  grieves  and  grieves  and 
smokes  her  corn-cob  pipe  and  speculates  and  grieves 
some  more. 

Now,  don't  you  get  no  wrong  idea  about  Widder  Wat 
son.  She  ain't  so  all-fired  crazy  about  men.  It  ain't 
that.  That  ain't  what  makes  her  grieve.  She  is  sad 
because  she  wants  another  baby  to  pin  a  name  to. 

For  she  has  got  the  most  lovely  name  out  of  a  new 
almanac  for  that  there  kid  that  will  likely  never  be 
born,  and  she  sets  there  day  after  day,  and  far  into  the 
night,  lookin'  at  them  graves  in  the  brush,  and  talkin' 
to  the  clouds  and  stars,  and  sayin'  that  name  over  and 
over  to  herself,  and  sighin'  and  weepin'  because  that 
lovely  name  will  be  lost  and  unknown  and  wasted  for- 
evermore,  with  no  kid  to  tack  it  on  to. 

And  she  hopes  and  yearns  and  grieves  for  another 
man  to  marry  her  and  wonders  why  none  of  'em  never 
does.  Well,  I  can  see  why  they  don't.  The  truth  is, 
Widder  Watson  don't  fix  herself  up  much  any  more. 
She  goes  barefooted  most  of  the  time  in  warm  weather, 
and  since  she  got  so  sad-like  she  don't  comb  her  hair 
much.  And  them  corn-cob  pipes  of  hern  ain't  none  too 
savory.  But  I  'spose  she  thinks  of  herself  as  bein'  jist 
the  same  way  she  was  the  last  time  she  took  the  trouble 
to  look  into  the  lookin'  glass  and  she  can't  understand 
it. 

"Damn  the  men,  Ben,"  she  says  to  me,  the  last  time 
I  was  by  there,  "what's  the  matter  with  'em  all?  Ain't 
they  got  no  sense  any  more?  I  never  had  no  trouble 
ketchin'  a  man  before  this!  But  here  I  been  settin' 


THE  SADDEST  MAN  123 

for  three  or  four  years,  with  eighty  acres  of  good  land 
acrost  the  road  there,  and  a  whole  passel  o'  young  uns 
to  work  it,  and  no  man  comes  to  court  me.  There  was 
a  feller  along  here  two-three  months  ago  I  did  have 
some  hopes  on.  He  come  a-palaverin'  and  a-blarneyin' 
along,  and  he  stayed  to  dinner  and  I  made  him  some 
apple  dumplin's,  and  he  et  an'  et  and  palavered. 

"But  it  turned  out  he  was  really  makin'  up  to  that 
gal,  Zody,  of  mine.  It  made  me  so  darned  mad,  Ben,  I 
runned  him  off  the  place  with  Jeff  Parker's  shotgun  that 
is  hangin'  in  there,  and  then  I  took  a  hickory  sprout  to 
that  there  Zody  and  tanned  her  good,  for  encouragin' 
of  him.  You  remember  Jeff  Parker,  Ben?  He  was  my 
second.  You  wasn't  thinkin'  of  gettin'  married  ag'in 
yourself,  was  you,  Ben?" 

I  told  her  I  wasn't.  That  there  eighty  acres  is  good 
land,  and  they  ain't  no  mortgages  on  it,  nor  nothin', 
but  the  thought  of  bein'  added  to  that  collection  in 
amongst  the  hazel  brush  and  hickory  sprouts  is  enough 
tor  to  hold  a  man  back.  And  the  Widder  Watson,  she 
don't  seem  to  realize  she  orter  fix  herself  up  a  little  mite. 
But  I'm  sorry  for  her,  jist  the  same.  There  she  sets 
and  mourns,  sayin'  that  name  over  and  over  to  herself, 
and  a-grievin'  and  a-hopin',  and  all  the  time  she  knows 
.  it  ain't  much  use  to  hope.  And  a  sadder  sight  than  you 
will  see  over  there  to  Hickory  Grove  ain't  to  be  found 
in  the  whole  of  the  State  of  Illinois. 

"That  is  a  mighty  sad  picture  you  have  drawed," 
said  the  stranger,  when  Ben  Grevis  had  finished,  "but 


124         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

I'm  a  sadder  man  for  a  man  than  that  there  woman  is 
for  a  woman." 

He  wrinkled  all  over,  he  almost  grinned,  if  one  could 
think  of  him  as  grinning,  when  he  mentioned  "that 
there  woman."  It  was  as  if  he  tasted  some  ulterior 
jest,  and  found  it  bitter,  in  connection  with  "that  there 
woman."  After  a  pause,  in  which  he  sighed  several 
times,  he  remarked  in  his  tired  and  gentle  voice: 

"There's  two  kinds  of  sadness,  gentlemen.  There  is 
the  melancholy  sadness  that  has  been  with  you  for  so 
long  that  you  have  got  used  to  it  and  kind  o'  enjoy  it 
in  a  way.  And  then  there's  the  kind  o'  sadness  where 
you  go  back  on  yourself,  where  you  make  your  own  mis 
takes  and  fall  below  your  own  standards,  and  that  is  a 
mighty  bitter  kind  of  sadness." 

He  paused  again,  while  the  skin  wreathed  itself  into 
funeral  wreaths  about  his  face,  and  then  he  said,  im 
pressively: 

"Both  of  them  kinds  of  sadness  I  have  known.  First 
I  knowed  the  melancholy  kind,  and  now  1  know  the 
bitter  kind." 

The  first  sadness  that  I  had  lasted  for  years  (said 
the  stranger  with  the  strange  skin).  It  was  of  the  mel 
ancholy  kind,  tender  and  sort  o'  sweet,  and  if  I  had 
been  the  right  kind  of  a  man  I  would  'a'  stuck  to  it  and 
kept  it.  But  I  went  back  on  it.  I  turned  my  face 
away  from  it.  And  in  going  back  on  it  I  went  back 
on  all  them  old,  sad,  sweet  memories,  like  the  songs 
tell  about,  that  was  my  better  self.  And  that  is  what 


THE  SADDEST  MAN  125 

caused  the  sadness  I  am  in  the  midst  of  now.  It's  the 
feelin'  that  I  done  wrong  in  turnin'  away  from  all  them 
memories  that  makes  me  as  sad  as  you  see  me  to-day. 
I  will  first  tell  you  how  the  first  sadness  come  on  to  me, 
and  secondly  I  will  tell  you  how  1  got  the  sadness  I  am 
in  the  midst  of  now. 

Gentlemen,  mebby  you  have  noticed  that  my  skin  is 
kind  o'  different  from  most  people's  skin.  That  is  a 
gift,  and  there  was  a  time  when  I  made  money  off'n 
that  gift.  And  I  got  another  gift.  I'm  longer  and 
slimmer  than  most  persons  is.  And  besides  them  two 
gifts,  I  got  a  third  gift.  I  can  eat  glass,  gentlemen,  and 
it  don't  hurt  me  none.  I  can  eat  glass  as  natural  and 
easy  as  a  chicken  eats  gravel.  And  them  three  gifts  is 
my  art. 

I  was  an  artist  in  a  side-show  for  years,  gentlemen, 
and  connected  with  one  of  the  biggest  circuses  in  the 
world.  I  could  have  my  choice  of  three  jobs  with  any 
show  I  was  with,  and  there  ain't  many  could  say  that.  I 
could  be  billed  as  the  India  Rubber  Man,  on  account  of 
my  skin,  or  I  could  be  billed  as  the  Living  Skeleton,  on 
account  of  my  framework,  or  I  could  be  billed  as  the 
Glass  Eater.  And  once  or  twice  I  was  billed  as  all  three. 

But  mostly  I  didn't  bother  much  with  eating  glass  or 
being  a  Living  Skeleton.  Mostly  I  stuck  to  being  an 
India  Rubber  Man.  It  always  seemed  to  me  there  was 
more  art  in  that,  more  chance  to  show  talent  and  genius. 
The  gift  that  was  given  to  me  by  Providence  I  de 
veloped  and  trained  till  I  could  do  about  as  much  with 
my  skin  as  most  people  can  with  their  fingers.  It  takes 


126          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

constant  work  and  practice  to  develop  a  skin,  even  when 
Nature  has  been  kind  to  you  like  she  has  to  me. 

For  years  I  went  along  contented  enough,  seem'  the 
country  and  being  admired  by  young  and  old,  and 
wondered  at  and  praised  for  my  gift  and  the  way  I 
had  turned  it  into  an  art,  and  never  thinkin'  much  of 
women  nor  matrimony  nor  nothing  of  that  kind. 

But  when  a  man's  downfall  is  put  off,  it  is  harder 
when  it  comes.  When  I  fell  in  love  I  fell  good  and 
hard.  I  fell  into  love  with  a  pair  of  Siamese  twins. 
These  here  girls  was  tied  together  somewheres  about 
the  waist  line  with  a  ligament  of  some  kind,  and  there 
wasn't  no  fake  about  it — they  really  was  tied.  On  ac 
count  of  motives  of  delicacy  I  never  asked  'em  much 
about  that  there  ligament.  The  first  pair  of  twins 
like  that  who  was  ever  on  exhibition  was  from  Siam,  so 
after  that  they  called  all  twins  of  that  kind  Siamese 
twins.  But  these  girls  wasn't  from  none  of  them  out 
landish  parts;  they  was  good  American  girls,  born  right 
over  in  Ohio,  and  their  names  was  Jones.  Hetty  Jones 
and  Netty  Jones  was  their  names. 

Hetty,  she  was  the  right-hand  twin,  and  Netty  was 
the  left-hand  twin.  And  you  never  seen  such  lookers 
before  in  your  life,  double  nor  single.  They  was  ex 
actly  alike  and  they  thought  alike  and  they  talked 
alike.  Sometimes  when  I  used  to  set  and  talk  to  'em 
I  felt  sure  they  was  just  one  woman.  If  I  could  'a' 
looked  at  'em  through  one  of  these  here  stereoscopes 
they  would  'a'  come  together  and  been  one  woman, 
I  never  had  any  idea  about  'em  bein'  two  women. 


THE  SADDEST  MAN  127 

Well,  I  courted  'em,  and  they  was  mighty  nice  to  me, 
both  of  'em.  I  used  to  give  'em  candy  and  flowers  and 
little  presents  and  I  would  set  and  admire  'em  by  the 
hour.  I  kept  gettin'  more  and  more  into  love  with 
them.  And  I  seen  they  was  gettin'  to  like  me,  too. 

So  one  day  I  outs  with  it. 

"Will  you  marry  me?"  says  I. 

"Yes,"  says  Hetty.  And,  "Yes,"  says  Netty.  Both 
in  the  same  breath !  And  then  each  one  looked  at  the 
other  one,  and  they  both  looked  at  me,  and  they  says, 
both  together: 

"Which  one  of  us  did  you  ask?" 

"Why,"  says  I,  kind  o'  flustered,  "there  ain't  but  one  of 
you,  is  they?  I  look  on  you  as  practically  one  woman." 

"The  idea!"  says  Netty. 

"You  orter  be  ashamed  of  yourself,"  says  Hetty. 

"You  didn't  think,"  says  Netty,  "that  you  could 
marry  both  of  us,  did  you?" 

Well,  all  I  had  really  thought  up  to  that  time  was 
that  I  was  in  love  with  'em,  and  just  as  much  in  love 
with  one  as  with  the  other,  and  I  popped  the  question 
right  out  of  my  heart  and  sentiments  without  thinking 
much  one  way  or  the  other.  But  now  I  seen  there  was 
going  to  be  a  difficulty. 

"Well,"  I  says,  "if  you  want  to  consider  yourself  as 
two  people,  I  suppose  it  would  be  marryin'  both  of  you. 
But  I  always  thought  of  you  as  two  hearts  that  beat 
as  one.  And  I  don't  see  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't 
marry  the  two  of  you,  if  you  want  to  hold  out  stubborn 
that  you  are  two." 


128         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

"For  my  part,"  says  Hetty,  "I  think  you  are  insult 
ing/' 

"You  must  choose  between  us,"  says  Netty. 

"I  would  never/'  says  Hetty,  "consent  to  any  Mor- 
monous  goings-on  of  that  sort/' 

They  still  insisted  they  was  two  people  till  finally  I 
kind  o'  got  to  see  their  side  of  the  argyment.  But  how 
was  I  going  to  choose  between  them  when  no  matter 
which  one  I  chooses  she  was  tied  tight  to  the  other  one? 

We  agreed  to  talk  it  over  with  the  Fat  Lady  in  that 
show,  who  had  a  good  deal  of  experience  in  concerns 
of  the  heart  and  she  had  been  married  four  or  five  times 
and  was  now  a  widder,  having  accidental  killed  her  last 
husband  by  rolling  over  on  him  in  her  sleep.  She  says 
to  me: 

"How  happy  you  could  be  with  either,  Skinny,  were 
t'other  dear  charmer  away!" 

"This  ain't  no  jokin'  matter,  Dolly,"  I  tells  her. 
"We  come  for  serious  advice." 

"Skinny,  you  old  fool,"  she  says,  "there's  an  easy 
way  out  of  this  difficulty.  All  you  got  to  do  is  get  a 
surgeon  to  cut  that  ligament  and  then  take  your 
choice." 

"But  I  ain't  really  got  any  choice,"  I  says,  "for  I 
loves  'em  both  and  I  loves  'em  equal.  And  I  don't  be 
lieve  in  tamperin'  with  Nature." 

"It  ain't  legal  for  you  to  marry  both  of  'em,"  says  the 
Fat  Lady. 

"It  ain't  moral  for  me  to  cut  'em  asunder,"  I  says. 

I  had  a  feelin'  all  along  that  if  they  was  cut  asunder 


THE  SADDEST  MAN  129 

trouble  of  some  kind  would  follow.  But  both  Hetty 
and  Netty  was  strong  for  it.  They  refused  to  see  me  or 
have  anything  to  do  with  me,  they  sent  me  word,  till  I 
give  up  what  they  called  the  insultin'  idea  of  marryin' 
both  of  'em.  They  set  and  quarrelled  with  each  other 
all  the  time,  the  Fat  Lady  told  me,  because  they  was 
jealous  of  each  other.  Bein'  where  they  couldn't  get 
away  from  each  other  even  for  a  minute,  that  jealousy 
must  have  et  into  them  something  unusual.  And  fin 
ally,  I  knuckled  under.  I  let  myself  be  overrulled.  I 
seen  I  would  lose  both  of  'em  unless  I  made  a  choice. 
So  I  sent  'em  word  by  the  Fat  Lady  that  I  would  choose. 
But  I  knowed  deep  in  my  heart  all  the  time  that  no  good 
would  come  of  it.  You  can't  go  against  Scripter  and 
prosper;  and  the  Scripter  says:  "What  God  has  joined 
together,  let  no  man  put  asunder." 

Well,  we  fixed  it  up  this  way:  I  was  to  pay  for  that 
there  operation,  having  money  saved  up  for  to  do  it 
with,  and  then  I  was  to  make  my  choice  by  chance. 
The  Fat  Lady  says  to  toss  a  penny  or  something. 

But  I  always  been  a  kind  of  a  romantic  feller,  and  I 
says  to  myself  I  will  make  that  choice  in  some  kind  of 
a  romantic  way.  So  first  I  tried  one  of  these  ouija 
boards,  but  all  I  get  is  "Etty,  Etty,  Etty,"  over  and 
over  again,  and  whether  the  ouija  left  off  an  H  or  an  N 
there's  no  way  of  telling.  The  Fat  Lady,  she  says: 
"Why  don't  you  count  'em  out,  like  kids  do,  to  find  out 
who  is  It?" 

"How  do  you  mean?"  I  asks  her. 

"Why,"  says  she,  "by  saying,  'Eeny  meeny,  miney, 


130          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

mo!'  or  else  'Monkey,  monkey,  bottle  of  beer,  how  many 
monkeys  have  we  here?'  or  something  like  that." 

But  that  ain't  romantic  enough  to  suit  me  and  I  re 
member  how  you  pluck  a  daisy  and  say:  "She  loves 
me!  She  loves  me  not!"  And  I  think  I  will  get  an 
American  beauty  rose  and  do  it  that  way.  Well,  they 
had  the  operation,  and  it  was  a  success.  And  about  a 
week  later  I'm  to  go  to  the  hospital  and  tell  'em  which 
one  has  been  elected  to  the  holy  bonds  of  matrimony. 
I  gets  me  a  rose,  one  of  the  most  expensive  that  money 
can  buy  in  the  town  we  was  in,  and  when  I  arrive  at  the 
hospital  1  start  up  the  front  steps  pluckin'  the  leaves 
of?  and  sayin'  to  myself:  "Hetty  she  is!  Netty  she  is! 
Hetty  she  is!" — and  so  on.  But  I  never  got  that  rose 
all  plucked. 

I  knowed  all  along  that  it  was  wrong  to  put  asunder 
what  God  had  joined  together,  and  I  orter  stuck  to  the 
hunch  I  had.  You  can't  do  anything  to  a  freak  with 
out  changing  his  or  her  disposition  some  way.  You 
take  a  freak  that  was  born  that  way  and  go  to  operat 
ing  on  him,  and  if  he  is  good-natured  he'll  turn  out  a 
grouch,  or  if  he  was  a  grouch  he'll  turn  out  good- 
natured.  I  knowed  a  dog-faced  boy  one  time  who  was 
the  sunniest  critter  you  ever  seen.  But  his  folks  got 
hold  of  a  lot  of  money  and  took  him  out  of  the  business 
and  had  his  features  all  slicked  up  and  made  over,  and 
what  he  gained  in  looks  he  lost  in  temper  and  dispo 
sition.  Any  tinkering  you  do  around  artists  of  that 
class  will  change  their  sentiments  every  time. 

I  never  got  that  rose  all  plucked.     At  the  top  of  the 


THE  SADDEST  MAN  131 

steps  I  was  met  by  Hetty  and  Netty,  just  comin'  out 
of  the  hospital  and  not  expectin'  to  see  me.  With  one 
of  them  was  a  young  doctor  that  worked  in  the  hos 
pital  and  with  the  other  was  a  patient  that  had  just 
got  well.  They  explained  to  me  that  as  soon  as  they 
had  that  operation  their  sentiments  toward  me  changed. 
Before,  they  had  both  loved  me.  Afterwards,  neither 
one  of  'em  did.  They  was  right  sorry  about  it,  they 
said,  but  they  had  married  these  here  fellows  that  morn 
ing  in  the  hospital,  with  a  double  wedding,  and  was  now 
starting  off  on  their  wedding  trips,  and  their  husbands 
would  pay  back  the  operation  money  as  soon  as  they 
had  earned  it  and  saved  it  up. 

Well,  I  was  so  flabbergasted  that  my  skin  stiffened 
up  on  me,  and  it  stayed  stiff  for  the  rest  of  that  day. 
1  never  said  a  word,  but  I  turned  away  from  there  a  sad 
man  with  a  broken  heart  in  my  bosom.  And  I  quit 
bein'  an  artist.  I  didn't  have  the  sperrit  to  be  in  a 
show  any  more. 

And  through  all  the  years  since  then  I  been  a  sad 
dened  man.  But  as  time  went  by  there  come  a  kind  of 
sweetness  into  that  sadness,  too.  It  is  better  to  have 
loved  and  lost  than  never  to  have  loved  at  all,  like  the 
poet  says.  I  was  one  of  the  saddest  men  in  the  world, 
but  I  sort  o'  enjoyed  it,  after  a  few  years.  And  all 
them  memories  sort  o'  kept  me  a  better  man. 

I  orter  stuck  to  that  kind  of  sweet  sadness.  I  orter 
knowed  that  if  I  went  back  on  all  them  beautiful  memo 
ries  of  them  girls  something  bitter  would  come  to  me. 

But  I  didn't,  gentlemen.     I  went  back  on  all  that 


132          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

sentiment  and  that  tenderness.  I  betrayed  all  them 
beautiful  memories.  Five  days  ago,  I  went  and  mar 
ried.  Yes,  sir,  I  abandoned  all  that  sweet  recollection. 
And  I  been  livin'  in  hell  ever  since.  I  been  reproachin' 
myself  day  and  night  for  not  provin'  true  and  trust 
worthy  to  all  that  romantic  sadness  I  had  all  them 
years.  It  was  a  sweet  sadness,  and  I  wasn't  faithful  to 
it.  And  so  long  as  I  live  now  I  will  have  this  here  bitter 
sadness. 

The  stranger  got  up  and  sighed  and  stretched  him 
self.  He  took  a  fresh  chew  of  tobacco,  and  began  to 
crank  his  flivver. 

"Well,"  said  Ben  Grevis,  "that  is  a  sad  story.  But 
I  don't  know  as  you're  sadder,  at  that,  than  the  Widder 
Watson  is." 

The  stranger  spat  colourfully  into  the  road,  and 
again  the  faint  semblance  of  a  smile,  a  bitter  smile, 
wreathed  itself  about  his  mouth. 

"Yes,  I  be!"  he  said,  "I  be  a  sadder  person  than  the 
Widder  Watson.  It  was  her  I  married!" 


DOGS  AND  BOYS 

(As  told  by  the  dog) 

IF  YOU  are  a  dog  of  any  sense,  you  will  pick  you  out 
a  pretty  good  sort  of  a  boy  and  stick  to  him.  These 
dogs  that  are  always  adopting  one  boy  after  another  get 
a  bad  name  among  the  humans  in  the  end.  And  you'd 
better  keep  in  with  the  humans,  especially  the  grown-up 
ones.  Getting  your  scraps  off  a  plate  at  the  back  door 
two  or  three  times  a  day  beats  hunting  rabbits  and 
ground-squirrels  for  a  living. 

What  a  dog  wants  is  a  boy  anywhere  from  about  nine 
to  about  sixteen  years  old.  A  boy  under  nine  hasn't 
enough  sense,  as  a  rule,  to  be  any  company  for  an  in 
telligent  dog.  And  along  about  sixteen  they  begin  to 
dress  up  and  try  to  run  with  the  girls,  and  carry  on  in  a 
'way  to  make  a  dog  tired.  There  are  exceptions  of 
course — one  of  the  worst  mistakes  some  dogs  make  is  to 
suppose  that  all  boys  are  alike.  That  isn't  true;  you'll 
find  just  as  much  individuality  among  boys  as  there  is 
among  us  dogs,  if  you're  patient  enough  to  look  for  it 
and  have  a  knack  for  making  friends  with  animals. 
But  you  must  remember  to  be  kind  to  a  boy  if  you're 
going  to  teach  him  anything;  and  you  must  be  careful 
not  to  frighten  him. 

133 


134         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

At  the  same  time,  you  must  keep  a  boy  in  his  place 
at  once.  My  boy — Freckles  Watson  is  his  name — 
understands  just  how  far  he  can  go  with  me.  But 
some  dogs  have  to  give  their  boys  a  lesson  now  and  then. 
Jack  Thompson,  who  is  a  fine,  big,  good-natured  dog, 
has  a  boy  like  that.  The  boy's  name  is  Squint — Squint 
Thompson,  he  is — and  he  gets  a  little  overbearing  at 
times.  I  remember  one  Saturday  afternoon  last 
summer  in  particular.  There  were  a  lot  of  us  dogs  and 
boys  fooling  around  up  at  Clayton's  swimming-hole, 
including  some  stray  boys  with  no  dogs  to  look  after 
them,when  Squint  began  to  show  off  by  throwing  sticks 
into  the  water  and  making  Jack  swim  in  and  get  'em. 
Jack  didn't  mind  that,  but  after  a  while  he  got  pretty 
tired  and  flopped  down  on  the  grass,  and  wouldn't 
budge. 

"Grab  him  by  the  tail  and  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  and 
pitch  him  in,  Squint,"  says  my  boy,  Freckles.  "It's  a 
lot  of  fun  to  duck  a  dog." 

Squint  went  over  to  where  Jack  was  lying  and  took 
hold  of  the  scruff  of  Jack's  neck.  Jack  winked  at  me 
in  his  good-natured  way,  and  made  a  show  of  pulling 
back  some,  but  finally  let  Squint  pitch  him  into  the 
deepest  part  of  the  swimming-hole.  His  head  went 
clear  under — which  is  a  thing  no  dog  likes,  let  alone 
being  picked  up  that  way  and  tossed  about.  Every  boy 
there  set  up  a  shout,  and  when  Jack  scrambled  up  the 
bank,  wagging  his  tail  and  shaking  the  water  off  himself, 
the  humans  all  yelled,  "Sling  him  in  again,  Squint!" 

Jack  trotted  over  to  where  he  had  a  bone  planted  at 


DOGS  AND  BOYS  135 

the  foot  of  a  walnut  tree,  and  began  to  dig  for  it. 
Squint  followed,  intending  to  sling  him  in  again.  I 
wondered  if  old  Jack  would  stand  for  any  more  of  it. 
Jack  didn't;  but  before  he  got  that  fool  boy  to  give  up 
his  idea  he  had  to  pretend  like  he  was  actually  trying  to 
bite  him.  He  threw  a  good  scare  into  the  whole  bunch 
of  them,  and  then  made  out  like  he'd  seen  a  rabbit  off 
through  the  trees,  and  took  after  it.  Mutt  Mulligan 
and  I  went  with  him,  and  all  the  boys  followed,  naked, 
and  whooping  like  Indians,  except  two  that  stayed  be 
hind  to  tie  knots  in  shirts.  When  we  three  dogs  had 
given  the  whole  bunch  of  them  the  slip,  we  lay  down 
in  the  grass  and  talked. 

"Some  day,"  says  Jack  to  me,  "I'm  afraid  I'm  really 
going  to  have  to  bite  that  Squint  boy,  Spot." 

"Don't  do  it,"  says  I,  "he's  just  a  fool  boy,  and  he 
doesn't  really  mean  anything  by  it." 

"The  thing  to  do,"  says  Mutt  Mulligan,  "is  to  fire 
him — just  turn  him  loose  without  a  dog  to  his  name, 
and  pick  up  another  boy  somewhere." 

"But  I  don't  like  to  give  Squint  up,"  says  Jack,  very 
thoughtful.  "I  think  it's  my  duty  to  stick  to  him,  even 
if  I  have  to  bite  him  once  or  twice  to  keep  him  in  his 
place." 

"You  see,"  Jack  went  on,  "I'm  really  fond  of  Squint. 
I've  had  him  three  years  now,  and  I'm  making  a  regular 
boy  of  him.  He  was  a  kind  of  a  sissy  when  I  took  charge 
of  him.  His  folks  made  him  wear  long  yaller  curls, 
and  they  kept  him  in  shoes  and  stockings  even  in  the 
summer-time,  and  they  dressed  him  up  in  little  blouses, 


136         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

and,  say,  fellows,  you'd  never  guess  what  they  called 
him!" 

"What?"  says  I. 

"Percival,"  says  Jack.  "And  they  wouldn't  let  him 
fight.  Well,  I've  seen  him  turn  into  a  real  boy,  a  bit 
at  a  time,  and  I  think  it's  up  to  me  to  stick  to  the  job 
and  help  with  his  education.  He  chews  tobacco  now," 
says  Jack  very  proudly,  "and  he  can  smoke  a  corn 
cob  pipe  without  getting  sick;  and  I'll  tell  you  what, 
Spot,  he  can  lick  that  Freckles  boy  of  yours  to  a 
frazzle." 

"Huh!"  says  I,  "there's  no  boy  of  his  age  in  town 
that  dast  to  knock  a  chip  off  that  Freckles  boy's  shoul 
der." 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  Jack,  ignoring  my  remark,  "that 
Squint  has  turned  into  some  kid,  believe  me!  And  the 
first  time  I  saw  him  he  was  a  sight.  It  was  about  dusk, 
one  summer  afternoon  three  years  ago,  and  he  was  sit 
ting  down  in  the  grass  by  the  side  of  the  road  six  or 
seven  miles  from  town,  crying  and  talking  to  himself. 
I  sat  down  a  little  way  off  and  listened.  He  had  run 
away  from  home,  and  I  didn't  blame  him  any,  either. 
Besides  the  curls  and  shoes  and  stockings  I  have  men 
tioned,  there  were  other  persecutions.  He  never  went 
fishing,  for  instance,  unless  his  father  took  him.  He 
didn't  dast  to  play  marbles  for  keeps.  They  wouldn't 
let  him  have  a  Flobert  rifle,  nor  even  a  nigger  shooter. 
There  were  certain  kids  he  wasn't  allowed  to  play  with 
— they  were  too  common  and  dirty  for  him,  his  folks 
said.  So  he  had  run  off  to  go  with  a  circus.  He  had 


DOGS  AND  BOYS  137 

hacked  off  his  Fauntleroy  curls  before  he  started  only 
he  hadn't  got  'em  very  even;  but  he  had  forgot  to  in 
quire  which  way  to  go  to  find  a  circus.  He'd  walked 
and  walked,  and  the  nearest  thing  to  a  circus  he  had 
found  was  a  gipsy  outfit,  and  he  had  got  scared  of  an 
old  man  with  brass  rings  in  his  ears,  and  run,  and  run, 
and  run.  He'd  slung  his  shoes  and  stockings  away  when 
he  started  because  he  hated  'em  so,  and  now  he  had  a 
stone  bruise,  and  he  was  lost  besides.  And  it  was 
getting  dark. 

''Well,  I  felt  sorry  for  that  boy.  I  sat  there  and 
watched  him,  and  the  idea  came  to  me  that  it  would 
be  a  Christian  act  to  adopt  him.  He  wasn't  a  sissy  at 
heart — he  had  good  stuff  in  him,  or  he  wouldn't  have 
run  away.  Besides,  I  wanted  a  change;  I'd  been  work 
ing  for  a  farmer,  and  I  was  pretty  sick  of  that." 

"It's  no  life  for  a  dog  with  any  sporting  instinct," 
I  said,  "farm  life  isn't.  I've  tried  it.  They  keep  you 
so  infernally  busy  with  their  cows  and  sheep  and  things; 
and  I  knew  one  farm  dog  that  had  to  churn  twice  a 
week.  They  stuck  him  in  a  treadmill  and  made 
him." 

"A  farm's  no  worse  than  living  in  a  city,"  said  Mutt 
Mulligan.  "A  city  dog  ain't  a  real  dog;  he's  either 
an  outcast  under  suspicion  of  the  police,  or  a  mama's 
pet  with  ribbons  tied  around  his  neck." 

"You  can't  tell  me,"  says  Jack.  "I  know.  A  coun 
try  town  with  plenty  of  boys  in  it,  and  a  creek  or  river 
near  by,  is  the  only  place  for  a  dog.  Well,  as  I  was  say 
ing,  I  felt  sorry  for  Percival,  and  we  made  friends. 


138         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

Pretty  soon  a  man  that  knew  him  came  by  in  a  buggy, 
going  to  town.  He  was  a  doctor,  and  he  stopped  and 
asked  Percival  if  he  wasn't  pretty  far  from  home. 
Percival  told  him  he'd  left  home  for  good  and  for  all; 
but  he  sniffled  when  he  said  it,  and  the  doctor  put  him 
into  his  buggy  and  drove  him  to  town.  I  drilled  along 
behind.  It  had  been  dark  quite  a  while  when  we  got 
home,  and  Percival's  folks  were  scared  half  to  death. 
His  mother  had  some  extra  hysterics  when  she  saw  his 
hair. 

"  'Where  on  earth  did  you  get  that  ornery-looking 
yellow  mongrel?'  says  Percival's  father  when  he  caught 
sight  of  me. 

That's  my  dog/  says  Percival.     'I'm  going  to  keep 
him/ 

'  'I  won't  have  him  around/  says  his  mother. 

"But  Percival  spunked  up  and  said  he'd  keep  me, 
and  he'd  get  his  hair  shingled  tight  to  his  head,  or  else 
the  next  time  he  ran  away  he'd  make  a  go  of  it.  He  got 
a  licking  for  that  remark,  but  they  were  so  glad  to  get 
him  back  they  let  him  keep  me.  And  from  that  time 
on  Percival  began  to  get  some  independence  about  him. 
He  ain't  Percival  now;  he's  Squint." 

It's  true  that  a  dog  can  help  a  lot  in  a  boy's  education. 
And  I'm  proud  of  what  I've  done  for  Freckles.  I  will 
always  remember  one  awful  time  I  had  with  him, 
though.  I  didn't  think  he'd  ever  pull  through  it.  All 
of  a  sudden  he  got  melancholy — out  of  sorts  and  dreamy. 
I  couldn't  figure  out  what  was  the  matter  with  him  at 
first.  But  I  watched  him  close,  and  finally  I  found 


DOGS  AND  BOYS  139 

out  he  was  in  love.  He  was  feeling  the  disgrace  of 
being  in  love  pretty  hard,  too;  but  he  was  trying  not  to 
show  it.  The  worst  part  of  it  was,  he  was  in  love  with 
his  school-teacher.  She  was  a  Miss  Jones,  and  an  old 
woman — twenty-two  or  twenty-three  years  old,  she 
was. 

Squint  and  Freckles  had  a  fight  over  it  when  Squint 
found  out.  Squint  came  over  to  our  place  one 
night  after  supper  and  whistled  Freckles  out.  He 
says: 

"Say,  Freckles,  I  seen  you  put  an  apple  on  Miss 
Jones's  desk  this  morning." 

"You're  a  liar,"  says  Freckles,  "and  you  dastn't  back 
it." 

"I  dast,"  says  Squint. 

"Dastn't,"  says  Freckles. 

''Dast,"  says  Squint. 

"Back  it  then,"  says  Freckles. 

"Well,  then,  you're  another,"  says  Squint.  Which 
backed  it. 

Then  Freckles,  he  put  a  piece  of  wood  on  to  his 
shoulder,  and  said: 

"You  don't  dast  to  knock  that  chip  off." 

"I  dast,"  says  Squint. 

"You  dastn't/'  says  Freckles. 

Squint  made  a  little  push  at  it.  Freckles  dodged,  and 
it  fell  off.  "There,"  says  Squint,  "I  knocked  it  off." 

"You  didn't;  it  fell  off." 

"Did." 

"Didn't  neither." 


140         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

"Did  teether.  Just  put  it  on  again,  and  see  if  I  don't 
dast  to  knock  it  off." 

"I  don't  have  to  put  it  on  again,  and  you  ain't  big 
enough  to  make  me  do  it,"  says  Freckles. 

"I  can  too  make  you." 

"Can't." 

"Huh,  you  can't  run  any  sandy  over  me!" 

"I'll  show  you  whether  I  can  or  not!" 

"Come  on,  then,  over  back  of  the  Baptist  Church,  and 
show  me." 

"No,  I  won't  fight  in  a  graveyard." 

"Yah!  Yah!  Yah!— 'f raid  of  a  graveyard  at  night! 
Fraid-cat!  Fraid-cat!  Fraid-cat!" 

There  isn't  any  kid  will  stand  for  that,  so  they  went 
over  to  the  graveyard  back  of  the  Baptist  Church. 
It  was  getting  pretty  dark,  too.  I  followed  them,  and 
sat  down  on  a  grave  beside  a  tombstone  to  watch  the 
fight.  I  guess  they  were  pretty  much  scared  of  that 
graveyard,  both  of  those  boys;  but  us  dogs  had  dug 
around  there  too  much,  making  holes  after  gophers, 
and  moles,  and  snakes  for  me  to  mind  it  any.  They 
hadn't  hit  each  other  more  than  half  a  dozen  times, 
those  boys,  when  a  flea  got  hold  of  me  right  in  the  mid 
dle  of  my  back,  up  toward  my  neck — the  place  I  never 
can  reach,  no  matter  how  hard  I  dig  and  squirm.  It 
wasn't  one  of  my  own  fleas,  by  the  way  it  bit;  it  must 
have  been  a  tramp  flea  that  had  been  starved  for  weeks. 
It  had  maybe  come  out  there  with  a  funeral  a  long  time 
before  and  got  lost  off  of  someone,  and  gone  without 
food  ever  since;  and  while  I  was  rolling  around  and 


DOGS  AND  BOYS  141 

twisting,  and  trying  to  get  at  it,  I  bumped  against  that 
tombstone  with  my  whole  weight.  It  was  an  old  slab, 
and  loose,  and  it  fell  right  over  in  the  grass  with  a  thud. 
The  boys  didn't  know  I  was  there,  and  when  the  tomb 
stone  fell  and  I  jumped,  they  thought  ghosts  were  after 
them,  though  I  never  heard  of  a  ghost  biting  anybody 
yet.  It  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep  up  with  those  boys 
for  the  next  five  minutes,  and  I  can  run  down  a  rabbit. 
When  they  stopped,  they  were  half  a  mile  away,  on 
the  schoolhouse  steps,  hanging  on  to  each  other  for  com 
fort.  But,  after  a  while  they  got  over  their  scare,  and 
Squint  said: 

'There  ain't  any  use  in  you  denying  that  apple, 
Freckles;  two  others,  besides  me,  not  counting  a  girl, 
saw  you  put  it  there." 

"Well/'  said  Freckles,  "it's  nobody's  business." 

"But  what  I  can't  make  out,"  says  Squint,  "is  what 
became  of  the  red  pepper.  We  knew  you  wasn't  the 
kind  of  a  softy  that  would  bring  apples  to  teacher  un 
less  they  was  loaded  with  cayenne  pepper,  or  something 
like  that.  So  we  waited  around  after  school  to  see  what 
would  happen  when  she  bit  into  it.  But  she  just  set 
at  her  desk  and  eat  it  all  up,  and  slung  the  core  in  the 
stove,  and  nothing  happened." 

"That's  funny,"  says  Freckles.  And  he  didn't  say 
anything  more. 

"Freckles,"  says  Squint,  "I  don't  believe  you  put  any 
red  pepper  into  that  apple." 

"I  did,"  says  Freckles.     "You're  a  liar!" 

"Well,"  says  Squint,  "what  become  of  it,  then?" 


142          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

'That's  none  of  your  business,  what  become  of  it," 
says  Freckles.  "What's  it  to  you  what  become  of  it? 
How  do  I  know  what  become  of  it?" 

"Freckles,"  says  Squint,  "I  believe  you're  stuck  on 
teacher." 

"You're  a  liar!"  yells  Freckles.  And  this  time  he 
was  so  mad  he  hit  Squint  without  further  words.  They 
had  a  beauty  of  a  fight,  but  finally  Freckles  got  Squint 
down  on  the  gravel  path,  and  bumped  his  head  up  and 
down  in  the  gravel. 

"Now,"  says  he,  "did  you  see  any  apple?" 

"No,"  says  Squint,  "I  didn't  see  any  apple." 

"If  you  had  seen  one,  would  there  have  been  pepper 
in  it?" 

"There  would  have  been — le'me  up,   Freckles." 

"Am  I  stuck  on  teacher?" 

"You  ain't  stuck  on  anybody — ouch,  Freckles,  le'me 
up!" 

Freckles  let  him  up,  and  then  started  back  toward 
home,  walking  on  different  sides  of  the  street.  About 
half-way  home  Freckles  crossed  the  street,  and  said : 

"Squint,  if  I  tell  you  something,  you  won't  tell?" 

"I  ain't  any  snitch,  Freckles,  and  you  know  it." 

"You  won't  even  tell  the  rest  of  the  Dalton  Gang?" 

"Nope." 

"Cross  your  heart  and  hope  to  die?" 

"Sure." 

"Well,  set  down  on  the  grass  here,  and  I'll  tell  you." 

They  set  down,  and  Freckles  says : 

"Honest,  Squint,  it's  true — I  did  take  her  that  apple 


DOGS  AND  BOYS  143 

this  morning,  and  I'm  stuck  on  her,  and  there  wasn't 
any  pepper  in  it." 

"Gee,  Freckles!"  says  Squint. 

Freckles  only  drew  in  a  deep  breath. 

"I'm  awful  sorry  for  you,  Freckles,"  says  Squint, 
"honest,  I  am." 

"You  always  been  a  good  pal,  Squint,"  says  Freckles. 

"Ain't  there  anything  can  be  done  about  it?" 

"Nope,"  says  Freckles. 

"The  Dalton  Gang  could  make  things  so  hot  for  her 
she'd  have  to  give  up  school,"  says  Squint,  very  hope 
ful.  "If  you  didn't  see  her  any  more,  you'd  maybe  get 
over  it,  Freckles." 

"No,  Squint,  I  don't  want  her  run  out." 

"Don't  want  her  run  out!  Say,  Freckles,  you  don't 
mean  to  say  you  like  being  in  love  with  her?" 

"Well,"  says  Freckles,  "if  I  did  like  it,  that  would  be 
a  good  deal  of  disgrace,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Gosh  darn  her!"  says  Squint. 

"Well,  Squint,"  says  Freckles,  "if  you  call  me  a  softy, 
I'll  lick  you  again;  but  honest,  I  do  kind  of  like  it." 

And  after  that  disgrace  there  wasn't  anything  more 
either  of  them  could  say.  And  that  disgrace  ate  into 
him  more  and  more;  it  changed  him  something  awful. 
It  took  away  all  his  spirit  by  degrees.  He  got  to  be  a 
different  boy — sort  of  mooned  around  and  looked  fool 
ish.  And  he'd  blush  and  giggle  if  any  one  said  "Hello" 
to  him.  I  noticed  the  first  bad  sign  one  Saturday 
when  his  father  told  him  he  couldn't  go  swimming  until 
after  he  had  gone  over  the  whole  patch  and  picked  the 


144         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

bugs  off  of  all  the  potatoes.  He  didn't  kick  nor  play 
sick;  he  didn't  run  away;  he  stayed  at  home  and  bugged 
those  potatoes;  he  bugged  them  very  hard  and  savage; 
he  didn't  do  two  rows,  as  usual,  and  then  sneak  off 
through  the  orchard  with  me — no,  sir,  he  bugged  'em  all! 
I  lay  down  at  the  edge  of  the  patch  and  watched  him, 
and  thought  of  old  times,  and  the  other  dogs  and  boys 
down  at  the  creek,  or  maybe  drowning  out  gophers,  or 
getting  chased  by  Cy  Smith's  bull,  or  fighting  out  a 
bumblebee's  nest  and  putting  mud  on  the  stung  places, 
and  it  all  made  me  fell  mighty  sad  and  downcast.  Next 
day  was  Sunday,  and  they  told  him  he'd  get  a  licking 
if  he  chased  off  after  Sunday-school  and  played  base 
ball  out  to  the  fair-grounds — and  he  didn't;  he  came 
straight  home,  without  even  stopping  back  of  the  liv 
ery-stable  to  watch  the  men  pitch  horseshoes.  And 
next  day  was  Monday,  and  he  washed  his  neck  with 
out  being  told,  and  he  was  on  time  at  school,  and  he 
got  his  grammar  lesson.  And  worse  than  that  before 
the  day  was  over,  for  at  recess-time  the  members  of  the 
Dalton  Gang  smoked  a  Pittsburgh  stogie,  turn  and  turn 
about,  out  behind  the  coal-house.  Freckles  rightly 
owned  a  fifth  interest  in  that  stogie,  but  he  gave  his 
turns  away  without  a  single  puff.  Some  of  us  dogs 
always  hung  around  the  school-yard  at  recess-times, 
and  I  saw  that  myself,  and  it  made  me  feel  right  bad; 
it  wasn't  natural.  And  that  night  he  went  straight 
home  from  school,  and  he  milked  the  cow  and  split  the 
kindling  wood  without  making  a  kick,  and  he  washed 
his  feet  before  he  went  to  bed  without  being  made  to. 


DOGS  AND  BOYS  145 

No,  sir,  it  wasn't  natural.  And  he  felt  his  disgrace 
worse  and  worse,  and  lost  his  interest  in  life  more  and 
more  as  the  days  went  by.  One  afternoon  when  I 
couldn't  get  him  interested  in  pretending  I  was  going 
to  chew  up  old  Bill  Patterson,  I  knew  there  wasn't  any 
thing  would  take  him  out  of  himself.  Bill  was  the  town 
drunkard,  and  all  of  us  dogs  used  to  run  and  bark  at 
him  when  there  were  any  humans  looking  on.  I  never 
knew  how  we  got  started  at  it,  but  it  was  the  fashion. 
We  didn't  have  anything  against  old  Bill  either,  but 
we  let  on  like  we  thought  he  was  a  tough  character; 
that  is,  if  any  one  was  looking  at  us.  If  we  ever  met 
old  Bill  toward  the  edge  of  town,  where  no  one  could 
see  us,  we  were  always  friendly  enough  with  him,  too. 
Bill  liked  dogs,  and  used  to  be  always  trying  to  pet  us, 
and  knew  just  the  places  where  a  dog  liked  to  be 
scratched,  but  there  wasn't  a  dog  in  town  would  be 
seen  making  up  to  him.  We'd  let  him  think  maybe 
we  were  going  to  be  friendly,  and  smell  and  sniff 
around  him  in  an  encouraging  sort  of  a  way,  like 
we  thought  maybe  he  was  an  acquaintance  of  ours,  and 
then  old  Bill  would  get  real  proud  and  try  to  pat  our 
heads,  and  say:  'The  dogs  all  know  old  Bill,  all  right 
— yes,  sir!  They  know  who's  got  a  good  heart  and  who 
ain't.  May  be  an  outcast,  but  the  dogs  know — yes, 
sir!"  And  when  he  said  that  we'd  growl  and  back  off, 
and  circle  around  him,  and  bristle  our  backs  up,  and  act 
like  we'd  finally  found  the  man  that  robbed  our  family's 
chicken-house  last  week,  and  run  in  and  snap  at  Bill's 
legs.  Then  all  the  boys  and  other  humans  around 


146         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

would  laugh.  I  reckon  it  was  kind  of  mean  and  hypo 
critical  in  us  dogs,  too;  but  you've  got  to  keep  the 
humans  jollied  up,  and  the  coarsest  kind  of  jokes  is  the 
only  kind  they  seem  to  appreciate.  But  even  when  I 
put  old  Bill  through  his  paces,  that  Freckles  boy  didn't 
cheer  up  any. 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  Miss  Jones  had  made  up 
her  mind  to  marry  the  Baptist  minister,  and  it  was 
only  a  question  of  time  before  she'd  get  him.  Every 
dog  and  human  in  our  town  knew  that.  Folks  used 
to  talk  it  over  at  every  meal,  or  out  on  the  front  porches 
in  the  evenings,  and  wonder  how  much  longer  he  would 
hold  out.  And  Freckles  used  to  listen  to  them  talking, 
and  then  sneak  off  alone  and  sit  down  with  his  chin  in 
his  hands  and  study  it  all  out.  The  Dalton  Gang — 
Squint  had  told  the  rest  of  them,  each  promising  not 
to  tell — was  right  sympathetic  at  first.  They  offered 
to  burn  the  preacher's  house  down  if  that  would  do 
any  good.  But  Freckles  said  no,  leave  the  preacher 
alone.  It  wasn't  his  fault — everyone  knew  he  wouldn't 
marry  Miss  Jones  if  she  let  him  alone.  Then  the 
Daltons  said  they'd  kidnap  the  teacher  if  he  said  the 
word.  But  Freckles  said  no,  that  would  cause  a  lot  of 
talk;  and,  besides,  a  grown  woman  eats  an  awful  lot; 
and  what  would  they  feed  her  on?  Finally  Tom  Mul 
ligan — he  was  Mutt  Mulligan's  boy — says: 

"What  you  got  to  do,  Freckles,  is  make  some  kind 
of  a  noble  sacrifice.  That's  the  way  they  always  do 
in  these  here  Lakeside  Library  books.  Something  that 
will  touch  her  heart." 


DOGS  AND  BOYS  147 

And  they  all  agree  her  heart  has  got  to  be  touched. 
But  how? 

"Maybe,"  says  Squint,  "it  would  touch  her  heart  if 
the  Dalton  Gang  was  to  march  in  in  a  body  and  offer  to 
reform." 

But  Tom  Mulligan  says  he  wouldn't  go  that  far  for 
any  one.  And  after  about  a  week  the  Dalton  Gang  lost 
its  sympathy  and  commenced  to  guy  Freckles  and  poke 
fun  at  him.  And  then  there  were  fights — two  or  three 
every  day.  But  gradually  it  got  so  that  Freckles  didn't 
seem  to  take  any  comfort  or  joy  in  a  fight,  and  he  lost 
spirits  more  and  more.  And  pretty  soon  he  began  to 
get  easy  to  lick.  He  got  so  awful  easy  to  lick  the 
Daltons  got  tired  of  licking  him,  and  quit  fighting  him 
entirely.  And  then  the  worst  happened.  One  day 
they  served  him  notice  that  until  he  got  his  nerve  back 
and  fell  out  of  love  with  Miss  Jones  again,  he  would  not 
be  considered  a  member  of  the  Dalton  Gang.  But  even 
that  didn't  jar  him  any — Freckles  was  plumb  ruined. 

One  day  I  heard  the  humans  talking  it  over  that  the 
preacher  had  give  in  at  last.  Miss  Jones's  pa,  and  her 
uncle  too,  were  both  big  church  members,  and  he  never 
really  had  a  chance  from  the  first.  It  was  in  the  paper, 
the  humans  said,  that  they  were  engaged,  and  were  to 
be  married  when  school  was  out.  Freckles,  he  poked 
away  from  the  porch  where  the  family  was  sitting  when 
he  heard  that,  and  went  to  the  barn  and  lay  down  on  a 
pile  of  hay.  I  sat  outside  the  barn,  and  I  could  hear  him 
in  there  choking  back  what  he  was  feeling.  It  made  me 
feel  right  sore,  too,  and  when  the  moon  came  up  I 


148         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

couldn't  keep  from  howling  at  it;  for  here  was  one  of  the 
finest  kids  you  ever  saw  in  there  bellering  like  a  girl,  and 
all  because  of  a  no-account  woman — a  grown-up  woman, 
mind  you!  I  went  in  and  lay  down  on  the  hay  beside 
him,  and  licked  his  face,  and  nuzzled  my  head  up  under 
his  armpit,  to  show  him  I'd  stand  by  him  anyhow. 
Pretty  soon  he  went  to  sleep  there,  and  after  a  long 
while  his  father  came  out  and  picked  him  up  and  carried 
him  into  the  house  to  bed.  He  never  waked  up. 

The  next  day  I  happened  by  the  schoolhouse  along 
about  recess-time.  The  boys  were  playing  prisoner's 
base,  and  I'm  pretty  good  at  that  game  myself,  so  I 
joined  in.  When  the  bell  rang,  I  slipped  into  Freckles's 
room  behind  the  scholars,  thinking  I'd  like  a  look  at 
that  Miss  Jones  myself.  Well,  she  wasn't  anything  I'd 
go  crazy  over.  When  she  saw  me,  there  was  the  deuce 
to  pay. 

"Whose  dog  is  that?"  she  sings  out. 

"Please,  ma'am,"  squeals  a  little  girl,  "that  is  Harold 
Watson's  dog,  Spot." 

"Harold  Watson,"  says  she  to  Freckles,  "don't  you 
know  it's  strictly  against  the  rules  to  bring  dogs  to 
school?" 

"Yes'm,"  says  Freckles,  getting  red  in  the  face. 

"Then  why  did  you  do  it?" 

"I  didn't,  ma'am,"  says  he.  "He's  just  come  visitin' 
like." 

"Harold,"  says  she,  "don't  be  impudent.  Step  for 
ward." 

He  stepped  toward  her  desk,  and  she  put  her  hand 


DOGS  AND  BOYS  149 

on  his  shoulder.  He  jerked  away  from  her,  and  she 
grabbed  him  by  the  collar.  No  dog  likes  to  see  a 
grown-up  use  his  boy  rough,  so  I  moved  a  little  nearer 
and  growled  at  her. 

"Answer  me/'  she  says,  "why  did  you  allow  this  beast 
to  come  into  the  schoolroom?" 

"Spot  ain't  a  beast,"  says  Freckles.     "He's  my  dog." 

She  stepped  to  the  stove  and  picked  up  a  poker,  and 
come  toward  me.  I  dodged,  and  ran  to  the  other  side 
of  her  desk,  and  all  the  scholars  laughed.  That  made 
her  mad,  and  she  made  a  swipe  at  me  with  that  poker, 
and  she  was  so  sudden  that  she  caught  me  right  in  the 
ribs,  and  I  let  out  a  yelp  and  ran  over  behind  Freckles. 

"You  can't  hit  my  dog  like  that!"  yelled  Freckles, 
mad  as  a  hornet.  "No  teacher  that  ever  lived  could 
lick  my  dog!"  And  he  burst  out  crying,  and  ran  out 
of  the  room,  with  me  after  him. 

"I'm  done  with  you,"  he  sings  out  from  the  hall. 
"Marry  your  old  preacher  if  you  want  to." 

And  then  we  went  out  into  the  middle  of  the  road, 
and  he  slung  stones  at  the  schoolhouse,  and  yelled 
names,  till  the  principal  came  out  and  chased  us  away. 

But  I  was  glad,  because  I  saw  he  was  cured.  A  boy 
that  is  anything  will  stick  up  for  his  dog,  and  a  dog  will 
stick  up  for  his  boy.  We  went  swimming,  and  then  we 
went  back  as  near  the  schoolhouse  as  we  dast  to.  When 
school  let  out,  Freckles  licked  the  whole  Dalton  Gang, 
one  at  a  time,  and  made  each  say,  before  he  let  him  up: 

"Freckles  Watson  was  never  stuck  on  anybody;  and 
if  he  was,  he  is  cured." 


150          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

They  all  said  it,  and  then  held  a  meeting;  and  he  was 
elected  president. 

And  me! — I  felt  so  good  I  went  down-town  and 
picked  a  fuss  with  a  butcher's  dog  that  wore  a  spiked 
collar.  I  had  always  felt  a  little  scared  of  that  dog 
before,  but  that  night  I  just  naturally  chewed  him  to 
a  frazzle. 


THE  KIDNAPPING  OF 
BILL  PATTERSON 

"THIS  town,"  says  Squint,  quiet,  but  determined, 
"has  got  to  be  made  an  example  of.  It  has  got  to 
learn  that  it  can't  laugh  at  the  Dalton  Gang  and  go 
unscathed.  Freckled  Watson  of  Dead  Man's  Gulch/' 
says  he  to  me,  "speak  up !  What  form  shall  the  punish 
ment  take?" 

"Blood,"  says  I. 

"Two-Gun  Tom  of  Texas,"  says  he  to  Tom  Mulligan, 
"speak!" 

"Death!"  says  Tom. 

"Arizona  Pete,  speak!" 

"Blood  and  Death,"  says  Pete  Wilson,  making  his 
voice  deep. 

"Broncho  Bob?" 

"Blood,  death,  and  fire!"  says  Bob  Jones. 

There  was  a  solemn  pause  for  a  minute,  and  then  I 
says,  according  to  rule  and  regulation : 

"And  what  says  Dead-Shot  Squint,  the  Terror  of  the 
Plains?" 

He  was  very  serious  while  one  might  have  counted 
ten  breaths,  and  then  he  pulled  his  jack-knife  from  his 
pocket  and  whet  it  on  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and  tried 
its  point  on  his  thumb,  and  replied: 

151 


152         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

"He  says  death,  and  seals  it  with  a  vow!" 
That  vow  was  a  mighty  solemn  thing,  and  we  always 
felt  it  so.  It  wasn't  the  kind  of  a  thing  you  would  ever 
let  small  kids  or  girls  know  about.  First  you  all  sat 
down  in  a  circle,  with  your  feet  together,  and  rolled 
up  the  sleeve  of  your  left  arm.  Then  the  knife  was 
passed  around,  and  each  drew  blood  out  of  his  left  arm. 
Then  each  one  got  as  much  blood  out  of  the  next  fellow's 
arm  as  he  could,  in  his  mouth,  and  all  swallowed  simul 
taneous,  to  show  you  were  going  into  the  thing  to  the 
death  and  no  turning  back.  Next  we  signed  our  names 
in  a  ring,  using  blood  mixed  with  gunpowder.  But  not 
on  paper,  mind  you.  We  signed  'em  on  parchment. 
First  and  last,  that  parchment  was  a  good  deal  of  trou 
ble.  If  you  think  skinning  a  squirrel  or  a  rat  to  get  his 
hide  for  parchment  is  an  easy  trick,  just  try  it.  Let  alone 
catching  them  being  no  snap.  But  Squint,  he  was  Cap 
tain,  and  he  was  stern  on  parchment,  for  it  makes  an 
oath  more  legal,  and  all  the  old-time  outlaws  wouldn't 
look  at  anything  else.  But  we  got  a  pretty  good  supply 
ahead  by  saving  all  the  dead  cats  and  things  like  that 
we  could  find,  and  unless  you  know  likely  places  to  look 
it  would  surprise  you  how  many  dead  cats  there  are  in 
the  world. 

We  were  in  the  Horse  Thieves'  Cave,  about  a  mile 
from  town.  It  had  really  been  used  for  that,  way  back 
before  the  war.  There  was  a  gang  pretended  to  be 
honest  settlers  like  everybody  else.  But  they  used  to 
steal  horses  and  hide  them  out  in  there.  When  they  had 
a  dozen  or  so  of  them  they'd  take  'em  over  to  the  Mis- 


KIDNAPPING  OF  BILL  PATTERSON     153 

sissippi  River,  which  was  about  thirty  miles  west,  some 
night,  and  raft  'em  down  stream  and  sell  'em  at  Cairo 
or  St.  Louis.  That  went  on  for  years,  but  along  in 
the  fifties,  my  grandfather  said,  when  he  was  a  kid,  a 
couple  was  hung,  and  the  remainder  got  across  the 
river  and  went  west.  The  cave  was  up  on  the  side  of 
a  hill  in  the  woods,  and  forgotten  about  except  by  a 
few  old-timers.  The  door-beams  had  rotted  and  fallen 
down,  and  the  sand  and  dirt  had  slid  down  over  the 
mouth  of  it,  and  vines  and  bushes  grown  up.  No  one 
would  have  guessed  there  was  any  cave  there  at  all. 
But  the  dogs  got  to  digging  around  there  one  afternoon 
when  the  Dalton  Gang  was  meeting  in  the  woods,  and 
uncovered  part  of  those  door  beams.  We  dug  some 
more  and  opened  her  up.  It  took  a  lot  of  work  to 
clean  her  out,  but  she  was  as  good  as  new  when  we 
got  done  with  her.  We  never  told  any  one,  and  the 
vines  and  bushes  were  so  thick  you  could  hunt  a  year 
and  never  find  the  opening.  It  isn't  every  bunch  of 
kids  get  a  real  Horse  Thieves'  Cave  ready-made  like 
that,  right  from  the  hands  of  Providence,  as  you  might 
say.  Pete  Wilson  used  to  brag  and  say  his  grand-dad 
was  one  of  those  horse-thieves.  It  made  the  rest  of  us 
feel  kind  of  meek  for  a  time,  because  none  of  us  could 
claim  any  honour  or  grandeur  like  that  in  our  families. 
But  my  grand-dad,  who  has  a  terrible  long  memory 
about  the  early  days,  said  it  wasn't  so;  so  far  as  he  could 
recollect  Pete's  grand-dad  never  had  any  ambition 
above  shoats  and  chickens. 
Well,  I  was  telling  you  about  that  oath.  We  were 


154         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

taking  it  because  Squint's  father,  who  was  mayor,  had 
run  on  to  one  of  those  parchments  (which  Squint  ought 
never  to  have  taken  away  from  the  cave),  and  had 
asked  a  lot  of  fool  questions  about  it.  Then  he  threw 
back  his  head  and  laughed  at  the  Dalton  Gang.  It 
made  our  blood  boil.  Hence,  our  plans  for  revenge. 

'The  time  has  come,"  said  Squint,  "for  a  bold  stroke. 
Yonder  proud  city  laughs.  But  he  laughs  best  who 
laughs  last.  And  ere  another  sun  has  set " 

'The  last  time  we  took  the  blood  oath,"  interrupts 
Bob  Jones,  "we  didn't  do  anything  more  important 
than  steal  the  ice  cream  from  the  Methodist  lawn 
sociable/' 

'There  must  be  no  failure,"  says  Squint,  not  heeding 
him,  and  he  jabbed  the  knife  into  the  ground  and 
gritted  his  teeth.  You  could  see  how  the  memory  of 
being  laughed  at  was  rankling  through  his  veins. 

"But,  Squint,"  says  Tom  Mulligan,  looking  quite  a 
bit  worried,  "you  don't  really  mean  to  kill  any  one,  do 
you?" 

Squint  only  says,  very  haughty:  "The  blood  oath  has 
been  sworn.  Is  there  a  traitor  here?"  He  was  al 
ways  a  great  one  for  holding  us  to  it,  Squint  was,  unless 
what  he  called  an  Honourable  Compromise  came  into 
sight.  And  we  all  got  mighty  uncomfortable  and 
gloomy  trying  to  think  of  some  Honourable  Compro 
mise.  It  was  to  me  that  the  great  idea  came,  all  of  a 
sudden. 

"Squint,"  I  says,  "the  thing  to  do  is  to  kidnap  some 
prominent  citizen  and  hold  him  for  ransom." 


KIDNAPPING  OF  BILL  PATTERSON     155 

Squint  brightened  up  and  said  to  wring  gold  from  the 
coffers  of  yonder  proud  city  would  be  even  more  satis 
faction  than  blood.  The  next  question  was:  Who  will 
we  kidnap? 

"I  suggest  the  mayor  of  yonder  town!"  says  Squint. 

"Gee — your  dad,  Squint?"  says  Tom  Mulligan. 

"I  offer  him  as  a  sacrifice/'  says  Squint,  very  majesti 
cally.  No  one  could  do  any  more,  and  we  all  felt 
Squint's  dad  had  deserved  it.  But  the  idea  was  so  big 
it  kind  of  scared  us,  too.  But  while  the  rest  of  us  were 
admiring  Squint,  Bob  Jones  got  jealous  and  offered  bis 
father.  Then  we  all  offered  our  fathers,  except  Tom 
Mulligan,  who  didn't  have  anything  better  to  offer  than 
a  pair  of  spinster  aunts.  There  was  a  general  row  over 
whose  father  was  the  most  prominent  citizen.  But 
finally  we  decided  to  bar  all  relatives  and  kinsfolk,  in 
order  to  prevent  jealousy,  even  to  the  distant  cousins. 
But  it  isn't  a  very  big  town,  and  it  would  surprise  you 
how  many  people  are  related  to  each  other  there. 
Finally  Bill  Patterson  was  voted  to  be  the  Honourable 
Compromise,  being  known  as  the  town  drunkard,  and 
not  related  to  anybody  who  would  own  up  to  it. 

It  figured  out  easy  enough.  All  we  had  to  do  was  to 
wait  until  Sunday  night,  and  take  Bill  out  of  the  lock 
up.  Every  Saturday  afternoon  regular  Si  Emery,  who 
was  the  city  marshal,  arrested  Bill  for  being  drunk  on 
Main  Street,  and  Bill  was  kept  in  jail  until  Monday 
morning.  Si  was  getting  pretty  old  and  feeble  and 
shaky,  and  of  late  years  the  town  council  never  let  him 
have  the  lock-up  key  until  just  an  hour  or  so  before  it 


156         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

was  time  to  arrest  Bill  on  Saturdays.  Because  one  time 
Si  had  forgot  to  feed  and  water  a  tramp  in  there  for 
about  a  week,  and  the  tramp  took  sick  after  a  while,  and 
he  was  dead  when  Si  remembered  about  him,  and  had 
to  be  buried  at  the  town's  expense.  And  several  times 
some  tough  customers  had  taken  the  keys  away  from  Si 
and  broken  into  the  place  and  played  cards  and  cut 
up  in  there  scandalous  for  half  the  night.  So  it  was 
thought  best  Si  shouldn't  carry  the  keys,  nor  the  hand 
cuffs  which  belonged  to  the  town.  After  he  had 
locked  Bill  up  on  Saturday  evenings  Si  would  take  the 
keys  to  the  mayor's  house,  and  get  them  again  on  Mon 
day  morning  to  let  Bill  out. 

So  the  next  Sunday  night  when  the  hired  girl  wasn't 
looking,  Squint  sneaked  the  keys  and  the  town  hand 
cuffs  out  of  the  drawer  in  the  kitchen  table  where  the 
knives  and  forks  were  kept.  He  slipped  upstairs  to 
bed,  and  no  one  noticed.  About  ten  o'clock  he  dressed 
again,  and  got  out  the  back  window,  and  down  the  light 
ning  rod;  and  at  the  same  hour  us  other  Daltons  were 
doing  much  the  same. 

We  met  behind  the  lockup,  and  put  on  the  masks 
we  had  made.  They  had  hair  on  the  bottoms  of  them 
to  look  like  beards  sticking  out. 

"Who's  got  the  dark-lantern?"  Squint  asks,  in  a 
whisper. 

"M-m-me,"  answered  Pete  Wilson,  stuttering.  I  was 
so  excited  myself  I  was  biting  my  coat-sleeve  so  my 
teeth  wouldn't  chatter.  And  Bob  Jones  was  clicking 
the  trigger  of  the  cavalry  pistol  his  uncle  carried  in  the 


KIDNAPPING  OF  BILL  PATTERSON     157 

war,  and  couldn't  stop,  like  a  girl  can't  stop  laughing 
when  she  gets  hysterics.  The  cylinder  was  gone  and  it 
couldn't  be  loaded  or  he  would  have  killed  himself,  for 
he  turned  it  up  and  looked  right  into  the  muzzle  and 
kept  clicking  when  Squint  asked  him  what  the  matter 
was.  Pete  shook  so  he  couldn't  light  the  lantern;  but 
Squint,  he  was  that  calm  and  cool  he  lit  her  with  the 
third  match.  He  unlocked  the  door  and  in  we  went. 

Bill  was  snoring  like  all  get  out,  and  talking  in  his 
sleep.  That  made  us  feel  braver  again.  Squint  says 
to  handcuff  him  easy  and  gentle  before  he  wakes.  Well, 
there  wasn't  any  trouble  in  that;  the  trouble  was  to 
wake  him  up  afterward.  He  was  so  interested  in  what 
ever  he  was  dreaming  about  that  the  only  way  we 
could  do  it  was  to  tickle  his  nose  with  a  straw  and  wait 
until  he  sneezed  himself  awake.  Squint  clapped  the 
muzzle  of  the  pistol  to  his  forehead,  while  I  flashed  the 
lantern  in  his  eyes  and  the  other  three  sat  on  his  stom 
ach  and  grabbed  his  legs.  Squint  says: 

"William  Patterson,  one  move  and  you  are  a  dead 
man!" 

But  Bill  didn't  try  to  move  any;  he  only  said: 

"Can't  an  honest  working-man  take  a  little  nap? 
You  go  'way  and  leave  me  be!" 

"William  Patterson,"  says  Squint,  "you  are  kid 
napped!"  ^ 

"Yer  a  liar,"  says  Bill.  "I  ain't.  Ye  can't  prove 
it  on  to  me.  I'm  just  takin'  a  little  nap." 

Then  he  rouses  up  a  little  more  and  looks  at  us 
puzzled,  and  begins  to  mumble  and  talk  to  himself: 


158    THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

"Here  I  be,"  he  says,  "and  here  they  be!  I  can  see 
'em,  all  right;  but  they  can't  fool  me!  They  ain't 
really  nothing  here.  I  seen  too  many  of  them  trem- 
enses  come  and  go  to  be  fooled  that  easy." 

"Arise,  William  Patterson,  and  come  with  us,"  says 
Squint. 

"Now,  you  don't  want  to  get  too  sassy,"  says  Bill,  "or 
you'll  turn  into  something  else  the  first  thing  you  know. 
You  tremenses  always  does  turn  into  something  else." 

We  had  to  kick  him  on  the  shins  to  make  him  get  up. 
When  we  did  that  he  says  to  himself:  "Shucks,  now! 
A  body'd  think  he  was  bein'  kicked  if  he  didn't  know 
different,  wouldn't  he?" 

He  came  along  peaceable  enough,  but  muttering  to 
himself  all  the  way:  "Monkeys  and  crocodiles  and  these 
here  striped  jackasses  with  wings  on  to  'em  I've  saw 
many  a  time,  and  argified  with  'em,  too;  and  talked 
with  elephants  no  bigger'n  a  man's  fist;  and  oncet  I 
chased  a  freight  train  round  and  round  that  calaboose 
and  had  it  give  me  sass;  but  this  is  the  first  time  a 
passel  o'  little  old  men  ever  come  and  trotted  me  down 
the  pike." 

And  he  kept  talking  like  that  all  the  way  to  the  cave. 
It  was  midnight  before  we  took  off  his  handcuffs  and 
shoved  him  in.  When  we  gave  him  that  shove,  he 
did  get  sort  of  spiteful  and  he  says: 

"You  tremenses  think  you're  mighty  smart,  but  if  I 
was  to  come  out  of  this  sudden,  where  would  you  be? 
Blowed  up,  that's  where — like  bubbles!" 

We  padlocked  the  door  we  had  rigged  up  over  the 


KIDNAPPING  OF  BILL  PATTERSON     159 

mouth  of  the  cave,  and  by  the  time  it  was  locked  he  was 
asleep;  we  could  hear  him  snoring  when  we  lit  out  for 
town  again. 

On  the  calaboose  door,  and  in  front  of  the  post-office, 
and  on  the  bank,  we  tacked  big  notices.  They  were 
printed  rough  on  wrapping  paper  and  spelled  wrong  so 
it  would  look  like  some  tough  customers  had  done  it. 
They  read  as  follows : 

Bill  Patterson  has  Bin  stole  5  hundred  $$  ransum  must 
be  left  on  baptis  Cherch  steps  by  Monday  mid-night  or  his 
life  pays  us  forfut  like  a  Theef  in  the  nite  he  was  took  from 
jale  who  Will  Be  next! 

— the  kidNappers. 

Next  morning  we  were  all  up  at  the  cave  as  early  as 
we  could  make  it.  I  had  a  loaf  of  bread  and  a  pie  and 
part  of  a  boiled  ham,  and  Pete  had  some  canned  sar 
dines  and  bacon  he  got  out  of  his  dad's  store,  and  the 
others  were  loaded  up  with  eggs  and  canned  fruit  and 
what  they  could  get  hold  of  easy.  You  may  believe  it 
or  not,  but  when  we  opened  that  cave  door  Bill  was  still 
asleep.  Squint  woke  him  up  and  told  him: 

"Prisoner,  it  is  the  intention  of  the  Dalton  Gang  to 
treat  you  with  all  the  honours  of  war  until  such  time  as 
you  are  ransomed,  or,  if  not  ransomed,  executed.  So 
long  as  you  make  no  effort  to  escape  you  need  have  no 
fear." 

"I  ain't  afeared,"  says  Bill,  looking  at  that  grub  like 
he  could  hardly  believe  his  eyes.  We  built  a  fire  and 
cooked  breakfast.  There  was  a  hollow  stump  on  the 


160         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

side  of  the  hill,  and  we  had  dug  into  the  bottom  of  it 
through  the  top  of  the  cave.  It  made  a  regular  chim 
ney  for  our  fireplace.  If  any  one  saw  the  stump  smok 
ing  outside  they  would  only  think  some  farmer  was 
burning  out  stumps. 

Bill  always  wore  a  piece  of  rope  around  his  waist  in 
place  of  a  belt  or  suspenders.  When  he  had  eaten  so 
much  he  had  to  untie  the  rope  he  sat  back  and  lighted 
his  pipe,  and  said  to  me,  right  cunning: 

"Til  bet  you  ain't  got  any  idea  what  state  this  here 
is." 

"It's  Illinois,"  says  I.  He  looked  like  he  was  pleased 
to  hear  it. 

"So  it  is,"  says  he.  "So  it  is !"  After  he  had  smoked 
awhile  longer  he  said:  "What  county  in  Illinois  would 
you  say  it  was,  for  choice?" 

"Bureau  county,"  I  told  him.  I  saw  then  he  hadn't 
known  where  he  was. 

"It  ain't  possible,  is  it,"  he  says,  "that  I  ever  seen  any 
of  you  boys  on  the  streets  of  a  little  city  by  the  name 
of  Hazelton?" 

I  told  him  yes. 

"I  s'pose  they  got  the  same  old  city  marshal  there?" 
says  he.  I  guess  he  thought  maybe  he'd  been  gone 
for  years  and  years,  like  Rip  Van  Winkle.  He  was 
having  a  hard  time  to  get  things  straightened  out  in 
his  mind.  He  stared  and  stared  into  the  bowl  of  his 
pipe,  looking  at  me  now  and  then  out  of  the  corners  of 
his  eyes  as  if  he  wondered  whether  he  could  trust  me  or 
not;  finally  he  leaned  over  toward  me  and  whispered  in- 


KIDNAPPING  OF  BILL  PATTERSON     161 

to  my  ear,  awfully  anxious:  "Who  would  you  say  I 
was,  for  choice,  now?" 

"Bill  Patterson,"  I  told  him,  and  he  brightened  up 
considerable  and  chuckled  to  himself;  and  then  he  said, 
feeling  of  himself  all  over  and  tying  on  his  rope  again : 

"Bill  Patterson  is  correct!  Been  wanderin'  around 
through  these  here  woods  for  weeks  an'  weeks,  livin'  on 
roots  an'  yarbs  like  a  wild  man  of  Borneo."  Then  he 
asks  me  very  confidential :  "How  long  now,  if  you  was  to 
make  a  guess,  would  you  judge  Bill  had  been  livin'  in 
this  here  cave?" 

But  Squint  cut  in  and  told  him  point  blank  he  was 
kidnapped.  It  took  a  long  time  to  get  that  into  Bill's 
head,  but  finally  he  asked:  "What  for?" 

"For  ransom,"  says  I. 

"And  revenge,"  says  Squint. 

Bill  looked  dazed  for  a  minute,  and  then  said  if  it 
was  all  the  same  to  us  he'd  like  to  have  a  talk  with  a 
lawyer.  But  Bob  Jones  broke  in  and  told  him  "Unless 
five  hundred  dollars  is  paid  over  to  the  gang,  you  will 
never  see  Hazelton  again."  He  looked  frightened  at 
that  and  began  to  pick  at  his  coat-sleeves,  and  said  he 
guessed  if  we  didn't  mind  he'd  go  and  take  a  little 
nap  now.  You  never  saw  such  a  captive  for  sleeping 
up  his  spare  time;  he  was  just  naturally  cut  out  to  be  a 
prisoner.  But  we  felt  kind  of  sorry  and  ashamed  we 
had  scared  him;  it  was  so  easy  to  scare  him,  and  we 
agreed  we'd  speak  gentle  and  easy  to  him  after  that. 

At  dinner  time  we  waked  Bill  up  and  gave  him  an 
other  meal.  And  he  was  ready  for  it;  the  sight  of 


162          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

victuals  seemed  to  take  any  fright  he  might  have  had 
out  of  his  mind.  You  never  saw  such  an  appetite  in 
all  your  born  days;  he  ate  like  he  had  years  of  lost 
time  to  make  up  for;  and  maybe  he  had.  He  was 
having  such  a  good  time  be  began  to  have  his  doubts 
whether  it  would  last,  for  he  said,  in  a  worried  kind  of 
way,  after  dinner:  'This  here  thing  of  being  kidnapped, 
now,  ain't  a  thing  you  boys  is  going  to  try  and  charge 
for,  is  it?  'Cause  if  it  is  them  there  sharp  tricks  can't 
be  worked  on  to  me;  and  if  you  was  to  sue  me  for  it 
you  sue  a  pauper." 

After  dinner  Squint  and  I  went  to  town  on  a  scout 
ing  party.  We  hung  around  the  streets  and  listened 
to  the  talk  that  was  going  on  just  like  a  couple  of  spies 
would  that  had  entered  the  enemy's  camp  in  war  time. 
Everybody  was  wondering  what  had  become  of  Bill, 
and  gassing  about  the  notices;  and  it  made  us  feel 
mighty  proud  to  think  that  fame  had  come  to  ones  so 
young  as  us,  even  although  it  came  in  disguise  so  that 
no  one  but  us  knew  it.  But  in  the  midst  of  that  feeling 
we  heard  Hy  Williams,  the  city  drayman,  saying  to  a 
crowd  of  fellows  who  were  in  front  of  the  post  office 
waiting  for  the  mail  to  be  distributed: 

'The  beatingest  part  of  the  whole  thing  is  that  any 
one  would  be  fools  enough  to  think  that  this  town  or 
any  other  town  would  pay  ransom  to  get  back  a  worth 
less  cuss  like  Bill  Patterson!" 

It  had  never  struck  us  like  that  before.  Instead  of 
being  famous  like  we  had  thought,  here  we  were  actually 
being  laughed  at  again!  Squint,  he  gritted  his  teeth, 


KIDNAPPING  OF  BILL  PATTERSON     163 

and  I  knew  all  the  rankling  that  he  had  done  inside  of 
him  was  as  nothing  to  the  rankling  that  he  was  doing 
now.  So  that  night  we  put  up  some  more  notices 
around  town,  which  read  as  follows: 

n.  B. — take  notus!  we  didunt  reely  Expect  money  for 
Old  Bill  Patterson,  we  onely  done  that  to  show  this  town 
Is  in  Our  Power.  Take  warning  and  pay  Up  the  next  will 
be  a  rich  one  or  his  child. 

— kidnappers. 

That  really  made  folks  pretty  serious,  that  notice. 
There  was  a  piece  in  a  Chicago  paper  about  the  things 
that  had  happened  in  our  town.  The  piece  told  a  lot 
of  things  that  never  had  happened,  but  when  the  papers 
came  down  from  Chicago  and  they  all  read  it  the  whole 
town  began  to  get  worse  and  worse  excited.  And  about 
that  time  we  began  to  get  scared  ourselves.  For  there 
was  talk  of  sending  off  to  Chicago  and  getting  a  detec 
tive.  People  were  frightened  about  their  kids,  too.  It 
kept  getting  harder  and  harder  for  us  to  get  out  to  the 
cave  to  guard  Bill.  Not  that  he  needed  much  guarding, 
either;  for  he  was  having  the  time  of  his  life  out  there, 
eating  and  sleeping  and  not  working  at  anything  else. 
It  had  been  years  since  he  had  struck  any  kind  of  work 
that  suited  him  as  well  as  being  kidnapped  did;  if  we 
hadn't  been  so  worried  it  would  have  been  a  pleasure  to 
us  to  see  how  happy  and  contented  we  were  making  him ; 
he  acted  like  he  had  found  the  real  job  in  life  that  he 
had  always  been  looking  for,  and  the  only  thing  that 
bothered  him  at  all  was  when  he  recollected  about  that 
ransom  and  got  afraid  the  town  would  pay  it  and  end 


164         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

his  snap.  But  mostly  he  didn't  bother  about  anything; 
for  his  recollection  was  only  by  fits  and  starts;  yester 
day  was  just  as  far  off  to  him  as  a  year  ago.  The  second 
day  he  was  there  he  did  get  a  little  grouchy  because 
he  had  been  without  anything  to  drink  for  so  long. 
But  that  night  someone  broke  into  the  saloon  and  stole 
a  lot  of  quart  bottles  of  whiskey;  about  a  bushel  of 
them,  it  was  said.  We  didn't  suspect  it  was  Bill,  right 
at  first,  for  he  was  foxy  enough  to  keep  it  hid  from  us; 
and  when  we  did  know  we  didn't  dare  say  anything! 
That  whiskey  was  the  one  thing  Bill  had  lacked  to 
make  him  completely  happy.  But  the  theft  worked  in 
a  way  that  increased  our  troubles.  For  it  showed  peo 
ple  that  the  mysterious  gang  was  still  hanging  around 
waiting  to  strike  a  desperate  stroke.  And  the  very  next 
night  a  store  was  broken  into  and  some  stuff  stolen. 
It  wasn't  Bill,  but  I  suppose  some  tramp  that  was  hang 
ing  around;  but  it  helped  to  stir  things  up  worse  and 
worse.  So  we  decided  that  we  had  better  turn  Bill 
loose.  We  held  a  meeting  out  by  the  cave,  and  then 
Squint  told  him: 

"Prisoner,  you  are  at  liberty!" 

"What  d'ye  mean  by  that?"  says  Bill.  "You  ain't 
goin'  back  on  me,  are  ye?" 

"Yonder  town  has  been  punished  enough,"  says 
Squint.  "Go  free — we  strike  your  shackles  off!" 

"But  see  here,"  says  Bill,  "wasn't  I  kidnapped  reg'lar? 
Ain't  I  been  a  model  prisoner?" 

"But  we're  through  with  you,  Bill,"  we  told  him. 
"Don't  you  understand?" 


KIDNAPPING  OF  BILL  PATTERSON     165 

Bill  allowed  it  was  a  mean  trick  we  were  playing  on 
him;  he  said  he  had  thought  we  were  his  friends,  and 
that  he'd  done  his  best  to  give  satisfaction  in  the  place, 
and  here  we  were,  firing  him,  as  you  might  say,  without 
any  warning,  or  giving  him  any  chance  to  get  another 
job  like  it,  or  even  telling  him  where  he  had  failed  to 
make  good,  and  then  he  snuffled  like  he  was  going  to 
cry,  and  said:  'That's  a  great  way  to  treat  an  honest 
workin'-man,  that  is!  An'  they  call  this  a  free  country, 
too!" 

But  Squint,  while  expressing  sorrow  that  we  should 
have  raised  any  false  hopes,  was  firm  with  him,  too. 
"You  take  the  rest  of  that  whiskey  and  chase  along, 
now,  Bill,"  he  said,  "you  aren't  kidnapped  any  more." 

But  Bill  flared  up  at  that.  "I  ain't,  ain't  I?"  he  said. 
"Yer  a  liar!  I  was  kidnapped  fair  and  square;  kid 
napped  I  be,  and  kidnapped  I  stay!  I'll  show  you 
blamed  little  cheats  whether  I'm  kidnapped  or  not,  I 
will!" 

He  took  a  chew  of  tobacco  and  sat  down  on  a  log, 
and  studied  us,  looking  us  over  real  sullen  and  spiteful. 
"Now,  then,"  he  says,  finally,  "if  you  young  smart  alecs 
think  you  can  treat  a  free  man  that-a-way  yer  dern 
fools.  I  got  the  law  on  to  my  side,  I  have.  Do  you 
think  I  don't  know  that?  Mebby  you  boys  don't 
know  ye  could  go  to  jail  for  kidnappin'  an  honest  work- 
in'-man?  Well,  ye  could,  if  it  was  found  out  on  ye. 
It's  a  crime,  that's  what  it  is,  and  ye  could  go  to  jail  for 
it.  You  treat  Old  Bill  fair  and  square  and  keep  friends 
with  him,  and  he  won't  tell  on  you;  but  the  minute  I 


166         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

hear  any  more  talk  about  bein'  set  at  liberty  I'll  tell  on 
ye,  and  to  jail  you  goes.  I'm  mighty  comfortable  where 
I  be,  and  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  turned  out." 

We  all  looked  at  each  other,  and  then  we  looked  away 
again,  and  our  hearts  sank.  For  each  one  read  in  his 
neighbour's  eyes  (as  Squint  said  later)  what  his  doom 
might  well  be. 

"Kidnapped  I  be,"  says  Bill  again,  very  rough  and  de 
cided,  "and  kidnapped  I  stay.  And  what's  more,  I  want 
chicken  for  supper  to-night.  I  ain't  had  no  chicken  for 
quite  a  spell.  You  can  wake  me  up  when  supper's  ready." 
And  he  went  into  the  cave  and  lay  down  for  a  nap. 

We  were  in  his  power,  and  he  knew  it ! 

We  had  to  steal  that  chicken,  and  it  went  against  the 
grain  to  do  it.  It  was  the  first  time  in  its  career  of 
crime  the  Dalton  Gang  had  ever  actually  stolen  any 
thing.  Except,  of  course,  watermelons  and  such  truck, 
which  isn't  really  stealing.  And  except  the  ice  cream 
from  the  Methodist  lawn  sociable,  which  was  for  re 
venge  and  as  a  punishment  on  the  Sunday  School,  and 
so  not  really  stealing,  either. 

Things  got  worse  and  worse.  For  Bill,  he  kept  us 
on  the  jump.  He  got  to  wanting  more  and  more  dif 
ferent  things  to  eat,  and  was  more  and  more  particular 
about  the  cooking.  He  wouldn't  lift  a  hand  for  him 
self,  not  even  to  fill  and  light  his  own  pipe.  We  waited 
on  him  hand  and  foot,  all  day  long.  And  first  he  would 
take  a  fancy  for  a  mess  of  squirrels,  and  then  he  would 
want  pigeons;  and  we  had  to  take  turns  fanning  the 
flies  off  of  him  when  he  wanted  to  take  a  nap.  Once 


KIDNAPPING  OF  BILL  PATTERSON     167 

he  told  a  story,  and  we  all  laughed  at  it;  and  that  gave 
him  the  idea  he  was  a  great  story  teller;  and  he  would 
tell  foolish  yarns  by  the  hour  and  get  sulky  if  we  didn't 
laugh.  We  got  so  we  would  do  anything  to  keep  him 
in  a  good  humour.  We  had  a  lot  of  Indian  stories  and 
Old  Sleuths  out  to  the  cave,  and  he  made  us  take  turns 
reading  to  him.  That  good-for-nothing  loafer  turned 
into  a  regular  king,  and  we  were  his  slaves. 

Between  sneaking  out  there  to  keep  him  happy  and 
contented  and  rustling  up  grub  for  him,  and  thinking 
all  the  time  we  would  be  arrested  the  next  minute,  and 
wanting  to  confess  and  not  daring  to,  we  all  got  right 
nervous.  Then  there  was  a  man  came  to  town  who 
didn't  tell  what  his  business  was  the  first  day  he  was 
there,  and  we  were  right  sure  he  was  a  detective.  He 
passed  right  by  the  cave  one  day,  and  we  hugged  the 
ground  behind  the  bushes  and  didn't  dare  breathe.  It 
turned  out  afterward  he  was  only  looking  at  some  land 
he  was  figuring  on  buying.  But  that  night  I  dreamed 
that  that  man  arrested  me;  and  I  was  being  sent  to 
jail  when  I  waked  up  screaming  out  something  about 
kidnapping.  1  heard  my  Pa  say  to  my  Ma,  after  they 
had  got  me  quieted  down : 

"Poor  little  fellow!  He  thought  he  was  kidnapped! 
No  wonder  he  is  afraid,  the  state  this  whole  town  is  in. 
If  those  desperadoes  are  caught,  they'll  go  to  the  pen  for 
a  good  long  term :  nothing  on  earth  can  save  'em  from 
a  Bureau  county  jury." 

Then  he  went  back  into  his  room  and  went  to  sleep; 
but  I  didn't  go  to  sleep.  What  he  had  said  didn't  make 


168         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

me  feel  sleepy.  I  slipped  out  of  bed  and  prayed  enough 
that  night  to  make  up  for  the  times  I  had  forgot  it 
lately;  and  the  next  day  the  rest  of  the  Dalton  Gang 
admitted  they  had  prayed  some,  too. 

But  the  worst  of  all  was  when  Bill  made  friends  with 
the  tramp.  Squint  and  I  went  out  to  the  cave  one 
morning  to  get  Bill's  breakfast  for  him,  and  as  we  got 
near  we  heard  two  sets  of  snores.  Bill's  snore  you  could 
tell  a  long  way  off,  he  sort  of  gargled  his  snores  and  they 
ended  up  with  kind  of  a  choke  and  an  explosion.  But 
the  other  snore  was  more  of  a  steady  whistling  sound. 
We  ran  across  the  fellow  sudden,  and  it  like  to  have 
frightened  us  out  of  a  year's  growth.  He  was  lying 
just  inside  the  cave  with  his  hat  pulled  over  his  face, 
but  he  was  snoring  with  one  eye  open.  It  peered  out 
from  under  the  brim  of  his  hat;  it  was  half-hidden,  but 
it  was  open  all  right,  and  it  was  staring  straight  at  us. 
It  wasn't  human;  no  one  with  good  intentions  would  lie 
there  like  that  and  snore  like  he  was  asleep  and  watch 
folks  at  the  same  time  on  the  sly.  We  couldn't  even 
run;  we  stood  there  with  that  regular  see-saw  snore 
coming  and  going,  and  that  awful  eye  burning  into  the 
centres  of  our  souls,  as  Squint  says  later,  and  thought 
our  end  had  come.  But  he  waked  up  and  opened  the 
other  eye,  and  then  we  saw  the  first  one  was  glass  and 
he  hadn't  meant  any  harm  by  it.  He  was  right  sorry 
he'd  scared  us,  he  said;  but  we'd  have  to  get  used  to 
that  eye,  for  he  allowed  he  was  kidnapped,  too.  It  was 
two  days  before  he  quit  being  our  captive  and  left,  and 
they  are  among  the  saddest  days  I  ever  spent. 


KIDNAPPING  OF  BILL  PATTERSON     169 

He  left  because  Bill's  whiskey  was  gone;  and  the 
afternoon  he  left,  Bill  was  helpless.  When  we  saw  Bill 
in  that  fix  it  gave  us  an  idea  how  to  get  rid  of  him. 
That  night  he  was  still  weak  and  easy  to  handle.  So 
we  slipped  the  handcuffs  on  him  and  took  him  back 
and  locked  him  into  the  calaboose  again.  Then  we  put 
signs  and  notices  around  town  that  read  this  way: 


Ha  Ha  Ha 

Did  you  ever  get  left!  this  town  joshed  me  for  years  but 
I  have  got  even — the  joke  is  on  to  you — I  wasn't  kidnapped 
a  tall — who  is  the  suckers  now? 

BILL  PATTERSON. 

And  that  town  was  so  mad  that  when  they  found  Bill 
in  the  jail  again  there  was  talk  of  handling  him  pretty 
rough.  But  it  all  turned  into  josh.  Bill,  when  he  woke 
up  in  the  calaboose,  thought  he  had  just  had  a  dream 
at  first,  and  denied  he  had  ever  been  absent.  Then 
when  he  saw  they  all  took  him  for  a  deep  joker  he  be 
gan  to  act  like  he  was  a  joker.  And  before  long  he  got 
to  thinking  he  really  had  played  that  trick  on  the  town. 
When  they  used  to  ask  him  how  on  earth  he  got  into  and 
out  of  the  calaboose  without  the  keys,  he  would  wink 
very  mysterious,  and  look  important,  and  nod  and 
chuckle  to  himself  and  say  that  was  the  best  part  of  the 
joke  and  he  intended  to  keep  it  to  himself. 

But  one  day  when  he  was  almost  sober  he  saw  Squint 
and  me  on  the  street  and  stared  at  us  long  and  hard  like 
he  was  trying  to  recollect  something,  and  scratched  his 


170         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

head  and  said:  "You  boys  didn't  always  used  to  live  in 
this  town,  did  you?" 

"Uh-huh,"  says  I. 

'That's  funny,"  says  Bill,  "I  could  have  swore  you 
was  boys  I  once  knowed  a  long  ways  off  from  here  that 
time  I  was  on  my  travels." 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

(As  told  by  the  dog) 

I  AM  a  middle-sized  dog,  with  spots  on  me  here  and 
there,  and  several  different  colours  of  hair  mixed  in  even 
where  there  aren't  any  spots,  and  my  ears  are  frazzled 
a  little  on  the  ends  where  they  have  been  chewed  in 
fights. 

At  first  glance  you  might  not  pick  me  for  an  aristo 
crat.  But  I  am  one.  I  was  considerably  surprised 
when  I  discovered  it,  as  nothing  in  my  inmost  feelings 
up  to  that  time,  nor  in  the  treatment  which  I  had  re 
ceived  from  dogs,  humans  orjxtys,  had  led  me  to  sus 
pect  it. 

I  can  well  remember  the  afternoon  on  which  the  dis 
covery  was  made.  A  lot  of  us  dogs  were  lying  in  the 
grass,  up  by  the  swimming  hole,  just  lazying  around, 
and  the  boys  were  doing  the  same.  All  the  boys  were 
naked  and  comfortable,  and  no  humans  were  about,  the 
only  thing  near  being  a  cow  or  two  and  some  horses, 
and  although  large  they  are  scarcely  more  human  than 
boys.  Everybody  had  got  tired  of  swimming,  and  it 
was  too  hot  to  drown  out  gophers  or  fight  bumblebees, 
and  the  boys  were  smoking  grapevine  cigarettes  and 
talking. 

171 


172          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

Us  dogs  was  listening  to  the  boys  talk.  A  Stray 
Boy,  which  I  mean  one  not  claimed  or  looked  out  for 
or  owned  by  any  dog,  says  to  Freckles  Watson,  who  is 
my  boy : 

"What  breed  would  you  call  that  dog  of  yours, 
Freck?" 

I  pricked  up  my  ears  at  that.  I  cannot  say  that  I 
had  ever  set  great  store  by  breeds  up  to  the  time  that  I 
found  out  I  was  an  aristocrat  myself,  believing,  as  Bill 
Patterson,  a  human  and  the  town  drunkard,  used  to  say 
when  intoxicated,  that  often  an  honest  heart  beats  be 
neath  the  outcast's  ragged  coat. 

"Spot  ain't  any  one  particular  breed,"  says  Freckles. 
"He's  considerably  mixed." 

"He's  a  mongrel,"  says  Squint  Thompson,  who  is 
Jack  Thompson's  boy. 

"He  ain't,"  says  Freckles,  so  huffy  that  I  saw  a  mon 
grel  must  be  some  sort  of  a  disgrace.  "You're  a  link, 
link  liar,  and  so's  your  Aunt  Mariar,"  says  Freckles. 

I  thought  there  might  be  a  fight  then,  but  it  was  too 
hot  for  any  enjoyment  in  a  fight,  I  guess,  for  Squint  let 
it  pass,  only  saying,  "I  ain't  got  any  Aunt  Mariar,  and 
you're  another." 

"A  dog,"  chips  in  the  Stray  Boy,  "has  either  got  to 
be  a  thoroughbred  or  a  mongrel.  He's  either  an  aristo 
crat  or  else  he's  a  common  dog." 

"Spot  ain't  any  common  dog,"  says  Freckles,  sticking 
up  for  me.  "He  can  lick  any  dog  in  town  within  five 
pounds  of  his  weight." 

"He's  got  some  spaniel  in  him,"  says  the  Stray  Boy. 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL  173 

"His  nose  is  pointed  like  a  hound's  nose/'  says  Squint 
Thompson. 

"Well,"  says  Freckles,  "neither  one  of  them  kind  of 
dogs  is  a  common  dog." 

"Spot  has  got  some  bulldog  blood  in  him,  too,"  says 
Tom  Mulligan,  an  Irish  boy  owned  by  a  dog  by  the 
name  of  Mutt  Mulligan.  "Did  you  ever  notice  how 
Spot  will  hang  on  so  you  can't  pry  him  loose,  when  he 
gets  into  a  fight?" 

"That  proves  he  is  an  aristocratic  kind  of  dog,"  says 
Freckles. 

"There's  some  bird  dog  blood  in  Spot,"  says  the  Stray 
Boy,  sizing  me  up  careful. 

"He's  got  some  collie  in  him,  too,"  says  Squint 
Thompson.  "His  voice  sounds  just  like  a  collie's  when 
he  barks." 

"But  his  tail  is  more  like  a  coach  dog's  tail,"  says 
Tom  Mulligan. 

"His  hair  ain't,  though,"  says  the  Stray  Boy.  "Some 
of  his  hair  is  like  a  setter's." 

"His  teeth  are  like  a  mastiff's,"  says  Mutt  Mulligan's 
boy  Tom.  And  they  went  on  like  that;  I  never  knew 
before  there  were  so  many  different  kinds  of  thorough 
bred  dog.  Finally  Freckles  says: 

"Yes,  he's  got  all  them  different  kinds  of  thorough 
bred  blood  in  him,  and  he's  got  other  kinds  you  ain't 
mentioned  and  that  you  ain't  slick  enough  to  see.  You 
may  think  you're  running  him  down,  but  what  you  say 
just  proves  he  ain't  a  common  dog." 

I  was  glad  to  hear  that.     It  was  beginning  to  look  to 


174          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

me  that  they  had  a  pretty  good  case  for  me  being  a 
mongrel. 

''How  does  it  prove  it?"  asked  the  Stray  Boy. 

"Well,"  says  Freckles,  "you  know  who  the  King  of 
Spain  is,  don't  you?" 

They  said  they'd  heard  of  him  from  time  to  time. 

"Well,"  says  Freckles,  "if  you  were  a  relation  of  the 
King  of  Spain  you'd  be  a  member  of  the  Spanish  royal 
family.  You  fellows  may  not  know  that,  but  you 
would.  You'd  be  a  swell,  a  regular  high-mucky-muck." 

They  said  they  guessed  they  would. 

"Now,  then,"  says  Freckles,  "if  you  were  a  relation 
to  the  King  of  Switzerland,  too,  you'd  be  just  twice  as 
swell,  wouldn't  you,  as  if  you  were  only  related  to  one 
royal  family?  Plenty  of  people  are  related  to  just  one 
royal  family." 

Tom  Mulligan  butts  in  and  says  that  way  back,  in 
the  early  days,  his  folks  was  the  Kings  of  Ireland;  but 
no  one  pays  any  attention. 

"Suppose,  then,  you're  a  cousin  of  the  Queen  of 
England  into  the  bargain  and  your  grand-dad  was  King 
of  Scotland,  and  the  Prince  of  Wales  and  the  Emperor 
of  France  and  the  Sultan  of  Russia  and  the  rest  of  those 
royalties  were  relations  of  yours,  wouldn't  all  that  royal 
blood  make  you  twenty  times  as  much  of  a  high-mucky- 
muck  as  if  you  had  just  one  measly  little  old  king  for  a 
relation?" 

The  boys  had  to  admit  that  it  would. 

"You  wouldn't  call  a  fellow  with  all  that  royal  blood 
in  him  a  mongrel,  would  you?"  says  Freckles.  "You 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL  175 

bet  your  sweet  life  you  wouldn't!  A  fellow  like  that 
is  darned  near  on  the  level  with  a  congressman  or  a  vice- 
president.  Whenever  he  travels  around  in  the  old 
country  they  turn  out  the  brass  band;  and  the  firemen 
and  the  Knights  of  Pythias  and  the  Modern  Woodmen 
parade,  and  the  mayor  makes  a  speech,  and  there's  a 
picnic  and  firecrackers,  and  he  gets  blamed  near  any 
thing  he  wants.  People  kow-tow  to  him,  just  like  they 
do  to  a  swell  left-handed  pitcher  or  a  champion  prize 
fighter.  If  you  went  over  to  the  old  country  and  called 
a  fellow  like  that  a  mongrel,  and  it  got  out  on  you,  you 
would  be  sent  to  jail  for  it." 

Tom  Mulligan  says  yes,  that  is  so;  his  grand-dad 
came  to  this  country  through  getting  into  some  kind  of 
trouble  about  the  King  of  England,  and  the  King  of 
England  ain't  anywhere  near  as  swell  as  the  fellow 
Freckles  described,  nor  near  so  royal,  neither. 

"Well,  then,"  says  Freckles,  "it's  the  same  way  with 
my  dog,  Spot,  here.  Any  dog  can  be  full  of  just  one 
kind  of  thoroughbred  blood.  That's  nothing!  But 
Spot  here  has  got  more  different  kinds  of  thoroughbred 
blood  in  him  than  any  dog  you  ever  saw.  By  your  own 
say-so  he  has.  He's  got  all  kinds  of  thoroughbred 
blood  in  him.  If  there's  any  kind  he  ain't  got,  you  just 
name  it,  will  you?" 

"He  ain't  got  any  Great  Dane  in  him,"  yells  the  Stray 
Boy,  hating  to  knuckle  under. 

"You're  a  liar,  he  has,  too,"  says  Freckles. 

The  Stray  Boy  backed  it,  and  there  was  a  fight.  All 
us  dogs  and  boys  gathered  around  in  a  ring  to  watch 


176         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

it,  and  I  was  more  anxious  than  anybody  else.  For  the 
way  that  fight  went,  it  was  easy  to  see,  would  decide 
what  I  was. 

Well,  Freckles  licked  that  Stray  Boy,  and  rubbed  his 
nose  in  the  mud,  and  that's  how  I  come  to  be  an  aristo 
crat. 

Being  an  aristocrat  may  sound  easy.  And  it  may 
look  easy  to  outsiders.  And  it  may  really  be  easy  for 
them  that  are  used  to  it.  But  it  wasn't  easy  for  me. 
It  came  on  me  suddenly,  the  knowledge  that  I  was  one, 
and  without  warning.  I  didn't  have  any  time  to  prac 
tise  up  being  one.  One  minute  I  wasn't  one,  and  the 
next  minute  I  was;  and  while,  of  course,  I  felt  impor 
tant  over  it,  there  were  spells  when  I  would  get  kind  of 
discouraged,  too,  and  wish  I  could  go  back  to  being  a 
common  dog  again.  I  kept  expecting  my  tastes  and 
habits  to  change.  I  watched  and  waited  for  them  to. 
But  they  didn't.  No  change  at  all  set  in  on  me.  But 
I  had  to  pretend  I  was  changed.  Then  I  would  get 
tired  of  pretending,  and  be  down-hearted  about  the 
whole  thing,  and  say  to  myself:  'There  has  been  a  mis 
take.  I  am  not  an  aristocrat  after  all." 

I  might  have  gone  along  like  that  for  a  long  time, 
partly  in  joy  over  my  noble  birth,  and  partly  in  doubt, 
without  ever  being  certain,  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  hap 
pening  which  showed,  as  Freckles  said,  that  blood  will 
tell. 

It  happened  the  day  Wilson's  World's  Greatest  One 
Ring  Circus  and  Menagerie  came  to  our  town.  Freck 
les  and  me,  and  all  the  other  dogs  and  boys,  and  a  good 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL  111 

many  humans,  too,  followed  the  street  parade  around 
through  town  and  back  to  the  circus  lot.  Many  went 
in,  and  the  ones  that  didn't  have  any  money  hung 
around  outside  a  while  and  explained  to  each  other 
they  were  going  at  night,  because  a  circus  is  more  fun 
at  night  anyhow.  Freckles  didn't  have  any  money,  but 
his  dad  was  going  to  take  him  that  night,  so  when  the 
parade  was  over,  him  and  me  went  back  to  his  dad's 
drug  store  on  Main  Street,  and  I  crawled  under  the  soda- 
water  counter  to  take  a  nap. 

Freckles's  dad,  that  everyone  calls  Doc  Watson,  is  a 
pretty  good  fellow  for  a  human,  and  he  doesn't  mind 
you  hanging  around  the  store  if  you  don't  drag  bones 
in  or  scratch  too  many  fleas  off.  So  I'm  there  consider 
able  in  right  hot  weather.  Under  the  soda  water  coun 
ter  is  the  coolest  place  for  a  dog  in  the  whole  town. 
There's  a  zinc  tub  under  there  always  full  of  water, 
where  Doc  washes  the  soda-water  glasses,  and  there's 
always  considerable  water  slopped  on  to  the  floor.  It's 
damp  and  dark  there  always.  Outdoors  it  may  be  so 
hot  in  the  sun  that  your  tongue  hangs  out  of  you  so  far 
you  tangle  your  feet  in  it,  but  in  under  there  you  can 
lie  comfortable  and  snooze,  and  when  you  wake  up  and 
want  a  drink  there's  the  tub  with  the  glasses  in  it.  And 
flies  don't  bother  you  because  they  stay  on  top  of  the 
counter  where  soda  water  has  been  spilled. 

Circus  day  was  a  hot  one,  and  I  must  have  drowsed 
off  pretty  quick  after  lying  down.  I  don't  know  how 
long  I  slept,  but  when  I  waked  up  it  was  with  a  start, 
for  something  important  was  going  on  outside  in  Main 


178          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

Street.  I  could  hear  people  screaming  and  swearing 
and  running  along  the  wooden  sidewalk,  and  horses 
whinnying,  and  dogs  barking,  and  old  Si  Emery, 
the  city  marshal,  was  yelling  out  that  he  was  an 
officer  of  the  law,  and  the  steam  whistle  on  the  flour  mill 
was  blowing.  And  it  all  seemed  to  be  right  in  front  of 
our  store.  I  was  thinking  I'd  better  go  out  and  see 
about  it,  when  the  screen  doors  crashed  like  a  runaway 
horse  had  come  through  them,  and  the  next  minute  a 
big  yellow  dog  was  back  of  the  counter,  trying  to 
scrouch  down  and  scrooge  under  it  like  he  was  scared 
and  was  hiding.  He  backed  me  into  the  corner  without 
seeing  me  or  knowing  I  was  there,  and  like  to  have 
squashed  me. 

No  dog — and  it  never  struck  me  that  maybe  this 
wasn't  a  dog — no  dog  can  just  calmly  sit  down  on  me 
like  that  when  I'm  waking  up  from  a  nap,  and  get  away 
with  it,  no  matter  how  big  he  is,  and  in  spite  of  the 
darkness  under  there  I  could  see  and  feel  that  this  was 
the  biggest  dog  in  the  world.  I  had  been  dreaming  I 
was  in  a  fight,  anyhow,  when  he  crowded  in  there  with 
his  hindquarters  on  top  of  me,  and  I  bit  him  on  the 
hind  leg. 

When  I  bit  him  he  let  out  a  noise  like  a  thrashing 
machine  starting  up.  It  wasn't  a  bark.  Nothing  but 
the  end  of  the  world  coming  could  bark  like  that.  It 
was  a  noise  more  like  I  heard  one  time  when  the  boys 
dared  Freckles  to  lie  down  between  the  cattle  guards 
on  the  railroad  track  and  let  a  train  run  over  him  about 
a  foot  above  his  head,  and  I  laid  down  there  with  him 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL  179 

and  it  nearly  deafened  both  of  us.  When  he  let  out 
that  noise  I  says  to  myself,  "Great  guns!  What  kind 
of  a  dog  have  I  bit?" 

And  as  he  made  that  noise  he  jumped,  and  over  went 
the  counter,  marble  top  and  all,  with  a  smash,  and  jam 
into  the  show  window  he  went,  with  his  tail  swinging, 
and  me  right  after  him,  practically  on  top  of  him.  It 
wasn't  that  I  exactly  intended  to  chase  him,  you  under 
stand,  but  I  was  rattled  on  account  of  that  awful  noise 
he  had  let  out,  and  I  wanted  to  get  away  from  there, 
and  I  went  the  same  way  he  did.  So  when  he  bulged 
through  the  window  glass  on  to  the  street  I  bulged  right 
after  him,  and  as  he  hit  the  sidewalk  I  bit  him  again. 
The  first  time  I  bit  him  because  I  was  sore,  but  the 
second  time  I  bit  him  because  I  was  so  nervous  I  didn't 
know  what  I  was  doing,  hardly.  And  at  the  second 
bite,  without  even  looking  behind  him,  he  jumped  clean 
over  the  hitch  rack  and  a  team  of  horses  in  front  of  the 
store  and  landed  right  in  the  middle  of  the  road  with 
his  tail  between  his  legs. 

And  then  I  realized  for  the  first  time  he  wasn't  a' dog 
at  all.  He  was  the  circus  lion. 

Mind  you,  I'm  not  saying  that  I  would  have  bit  him 
at  all  if  I'd  a-known  at  the  start  he  was  a  lion. 

And  I  ain't  saying  I  wouldn't  'a'  bit  him,  either. 

But  actions  speak  louder  than  words,  and  records  are 
records,  and  you  can't  go  back  on  them,  and  the  fact  is 
I  did  bite  him.  I  bit  him  twice. 

And  that  second  bite,  when  we  came  bulging  through 
the  window  together,  the  whole  town  saw.  It  was  get- 


180          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

ting  up  telephone  poles,  and  looking  out  of  second-story 
windows,  and  crawling  under  sidewalks  and  into  cellars, 
and  trying  to  hide  behind  the  town  pump;  but  no  mat 
ter  where  it  was  trying  to  get  to,  it  had  one  eye  on  that 
lion,  and  it  saw  me  chasing  him  out  of  that  store.  I 
don't  say  I  would  have  chased  him  if  he  hadn't  been 
just  ahead  of  me,  anyhow,  and  1  don't  say  I  wouldn't 
have  chased  him,  but  the  facts  are  I  did  chase  him. 

The  lion  was  just  as  scared  as  the  town — and  the 
town  was  so  scared  it  didn't  know  the  lion  was  scared 
at  all — and  when  his  trainer  got  hold  of  him  in  the  road 
he  was  tickled  to  death  to  be  led  back  to  his  cage,  and  he 
lay  down  in  the  far  corner  of  it,  away  from  the  people, 
and  trembled  till  he  shook  the  wagon  it  was  on. 

But  if  there  was  any  further  doubts  in  any  quarter 
about  me  being  an  aristocrat,  the  way  I  bit  and  chased 
that  lion  settled  'em  forever.  That  night  Freckles  and 
Doc  went  to  the  circus,  and  I  marched  in  along  with 
them.  And  every  kid  in  town,  as  they  saw  Freckles  and 
me  marching  in,  says: 

'There  goes  the  dog  that  licked  the  lion!" 
And  Freckles,  every  time  any  one  congratulated  him 
on  being  the  boy  that  belonged  to  that  kind  of  a  dog, 
would  say: 

"Blood  will  tell!  Spot's  an  aristocrat,  he  is." 
And  him  and  me  and  Doc  Watson,  his  dad,  stopped 
in  front  of  the  lion's  cage  that  night  and  took  a  good 
long  look  at  him.  He  was  a  kind  of  an  old  moth-eaten 
lion,  but  he  was  a  lion  all  right,  and  he  looked  mighty 
big  in  there.  He  looked  so  big  that  all  my  doubts  come 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL  181 

back  on  me,  and  I  says  to  myself:  "Honest,  now,  if  I'd 
a-known  he  was  a  lion,  and  that  big  a  lion,  when  I  bit 
him,  would  I  have  bit  him  or  would  I  not?" 

But  just  then  Freckles  reached  down  and  patted  me 
on  the  head  and  said:  "You  wasn't  afraid  of  him,  was 
you,  old  Spot !  Yes,  sir,  blood  will  tell !" 


BEING  A  PUBLIC  CHARACTER 

(As  told  by  the  dog) 

EVER  since  I  bit  a  circus  lion,  believing  him  to  be 
another  dog  like  myself,  only  larger,  I  have  been  what 
Doc  Watson  calls  a  Public  Character  in  our  town. 

Freckles,  my  boy,  was  a  kind  of  a  public  character, 
too.  He  went  around  bragging  about  my  noble  blood 
and  bravery,  and  all  the  other  boys  and  dogs  in  town 
sort  of  looked  up  to  him  and  thought  how  lucky  he  was 
to  belong  to  a  dog  like  me.  And  he  deserved  whatever 
glory  he  got  of  it,  Freckles  did.  For,  if  I  do  say  it  my 
self,  there's  not  a  dog  in  town  got  a  better  boy  than  my 
boy  Freckles,  take  him  all  in  all.  I'll  back  him  against 
any  dog's  boy  that  is  anywhere  near  his  size,  for  fight 
ing,  swimming,  climbing,  foot-racing,  or  throwing 
stones  farthest  and  straightest.  Or  I'll  back  him 
against  any  stray  boy,  either. 

Well,  some  dogs  may  be  born  Public  Characters,  and 
like  it.  And  some  may  be  brought  up  to  like  it.  I've 
seen  dogs  in  those  travelling  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  shows 
that  were  so  stuck  on  themselves  they  wouldn't  hardly 
notice  us  town  dogs.  But  with  me,  becoming  a  Public 
Character  happened  all  in  a  flash,  and  it  was  sort  of 
hard  for  me  to  get  used  to  it.  One  day  I  was  just  a 

182 


BEING  A  PUBLIC  CHARACTER          183 

private  kind  of  a  dog,  as  you  might  say,  eating  my 
meals  at  the  Watson's  back  door,  and  pretending  to 
hunt  rats  when  requested,  and  not  scratching  off  too 
many  fleas  in  Doc  Watson's  drug  store,  and  standing 
out  from  underfoot  when  told,  and  other  unremarkable 
things  like  that.  And  the  next  day  I  had  bit  that  lion 
and  was  a  Public  Character,  and  fame  came  so  sudden 
I  scarcely  knew  how  to  act. 

Even  drummers  from  big  places  like  St.  Louis  and 
Chicago  would  come  into  the  drug  store  and  look  at  my 
teeth  and  toe  nails,  as  if  they  must  be  different  from 
other  dogs'  teeth  and  toe  nails.  And  people  would 
come  tooting  up  to  the  store  in  their  little  cars,  and  get 
out  and  look  me  over  and  say: 

"Well,  Doc,  what'll  you  take  for  him?"  and  Doc  would 
wink,  and  say: 

"He's  Harold's  dog.  You  ask  Harold." 
Which  Harold  is  Freckles's  other  name.  But  any  boy 
that  calls  him  Harold  outside  of  the  schoolhouse  has 
got  a  fight  on  his  hands,  if  that  boy  is  anywhere  near 
Freckles's  size.  Harry  goes,  or  Hal  goes,  but  Harold 
is  a  fighting  word  with  Freckles.  Except,  of  course, 
with  grown  people.  I  heard  him  say  one  day  to  Tom 
Mulligan,  his  parents  thought  Harold  was  a  name,  or 
he  guessed  they  wouldn't  have  given  it  to  him;  but  it 
wasn't  a  name,  it  was  a  handicap. 

Freckles  would  always  say,  "Spot  ain't  for  sale." 
And  even  Heinie  Hassenyager,  the  butcher,  got  stuck 
on  me  after  I  got  to  be  a  Public  Character.     Heinie 
would  come  two  blocks  up  Main  Street  with  lumps  of 


184         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

Hamburg  steak,  which  is  the  kind  someone  has  already 
chewed  for  you,  and  give  them  to  me.  Steak,  mind 
you,  not  old  gristly  scraps.  And  before  1  became  a 
Public  Character  Heinie  even  grudged  me  the  bones  I 
would  drag  out  of  the  box  under  his  counter  when  he 
wasn't  looking. 

My  daily  hope  was  that  I  could  live  up  to  it  all.  I 
had  always  tried,  before  I  happened  to  bite  that  lion, 
to  be  a  friendly  kind  of  a  dog  toward  boys  and  humans 
and  dogs,  all  three.  I'd  always  been  expected  to  do  a 
certain  amount  of  tail-wagging  and  be  friendly.  But 
as  soon  as  I  got  to  be  a  Public  Character,  1  saw  right 
away  I  wasn't  expected  to  be  too  friendly  any  more. 
So,  every  now  and  then,  I'd  growl  a  little,  for  no  reason 
at  all.  A  dog  that  has  bit  a  lion  is  naturally  expected 
to  have  fierce  thoughts  inside  of  him;  I  could  see  that. 
And  you  have  got  to  act  the  way  humans  expect  you  to 
act,  if  you  want  to  slide  along  through  the  world  with 
out  too  much  trouble. 

So  when  Heinie  would  bring  me  the  ready-chewed 
steak  I'd  growl  at  him  a  little  bit.  And  then  I'd  bolt 
and  gobble  the  steak  like  I  didn't  think  so  derned  much 
of  it,  after  all,  and  was  doing  Heinie  a  big  personal 
favour  to  eat  it.  And  now  and  then  I'd  pretend  I 
wasn't  going  to  eat  a  piece  of  it  unless  it  was  chewed 
finer  for  me,  and  growl  at  him  about  that. 

That  way  of  acting  made  a  big  hit  with  Heinie,  too. 
I  could  see  that  he  was  honoured  and  flattered  because 
I  didn't  go  any  further  than  just  a  growl.  It  gave  him  a 
chance  to  say  he  knew  how  to  manage  animals.  And 


BEING  A  PUBLIC  CHARACTER          185 

the  more  I  growled,  the  more  steak  he  brought.  Every 
body  in  town  fed  me.  I  pretty  near  ate  myself  to  death 
for  a  while  there,  besides  all  the  meat  I  buried  back  of 
Doc  Watson's  store  to  dig  up  later. 

But  my  natural  disposition  is  to  be  friendly.  I 
would  rather  be  loved  than  feared,  which  is  what  Bill 
Patterson,  the  village  drunkard,  used  to  say.  When 
they  put  him  into  the  calaboose  every  Saturday  after 
noon  he  used  to  look  out  between  the  bars  on  the  back 
window  and  talk  to  the  boys  and  dogs  that  had  gathered 
round  and  say  that  he  thanked  them  one  and  all  for 
coming  to  an  outcast's  dungeon  as  a  testimonial  of 
affection,  and  he  would  rather  be  loved  than  feared. 
And  my  natural  feelings  are  the  same.  I  had  to  growl 
and  keep  dignified  and  go  on  being  a  Public  Character, 
but  often  I  would  say  to  myself  that  it  was  losing  me 
all  my  real  friends,  too. 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  people,  after  a  week  or  so, 
began  to  expect  me  to  pull  something  else  remarkable. 
Freckles,  he  got  up  a  circus,  and  charged  pins  and  mar 
bles,  and  cents  when  he  found  any  one  that  had  any, 
to  get  into  it,  and  I  was  the  principal  part  of  that  cir 
cus.  I  was  in  a  cage,  and  the  sign  over  me  read: 

SPOT,  THE  DOG  THAT  LICKED  A  LION 
TEN    PINS   ADMITTION 

To  feed  the  lion-eater,  one  cent  or  two  white  chiney  marbles 

extry  but  bring  your  own  meat. 
Pat  him  once  on  the  head  twinty  pins,  kids  under  five  not 

allowed  to. 


186          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

For  shaking  hands  with  Spot  the  lion-eater,  girls  not  allowed, 
gents  three  white  chinies,  or  one  aggie  marble. 

Lead  him  two  blocks  down  the  street  and  back,  one  cent 
before  starting,  no  marbles  or  pins  taken  for  leading  him. 

For  sicking  him  on  to  cats  three  cents  or  one  red  cornelian 
marble  if  you  furnish  the  cat.  Five  cents  to  use  Watson's 
cat.  Watson's  biggest  Tom-cat  six  cents  must  be  paid 
before  sicking.  Small  kids  and  girls  not  allowed  to  sick 
him  on  cats. 

Well,  we  didn't  take  in  any  cat-sicking  money.  And 
it  was  just  as  well.  You  never  can  tell  what  a  cat  will 
do.  But  Freckles  put  it  in  because  it  sounded  sort  of 
fierce.  I  didn't  care  for  being  caged  and  circused  that 
way  myself.  And  it  was  right  at  that  circus  that  con 
siderable  trouble  started. 

Seeing  me  in  a  cage  like  that,  all  famoused-up,  with 
more  meat  poked  through  the  slats  than  two  dogs  could 
eat,  made  Mutt  Mulligan  and  some  of  my  old  friends 
jealous. 

Mutt,  he  nosed  up  by  the  cage  and  sniffed.  I  nosed 
a  piece  of  meat  out  of  the  cage  to  him.  Mutt  grabbed 
it  and  gobbled  it  down,  but  he  didn't  thank  me  any. 
Mutt,  he  says: 

'There's  a  new  dog  down  town  that  says  he  blew 
in  from  Chicago.  He  says  he  used  to  be  a  Blind 
Man's  Dog  on  a  street  corner  there.  He's  a  pretty 
wise  dog,  and  he's  a  right  ornery-looking  dog,  too. 
He's  peeled  considerably  where  he  has  been  bit  in 
fights." 

"Well,  Mutt,"  says  I,  "as  far  as  that  goes  I'm  peeled 
considerable  myself  where  I've  been  bit  in  fights." 


BEING  A  PUBLIC  CHARACTER          187 

"I  know  you  are,  Spot,"  says  Mutt.  "You  don't 
need  to  tell  me  that.  I've  peeled  you  some  myself  from 
time  to  time." 

"Yes,"  I  says,  "you  did  peel  me  some,  Mutt.  And 
I've  peeled  you  some,  too.  More'n  that,  I  notice  that 
right  leg  of  yours  is  a  little  stiff  yet  where  I  got  to  it 
about  three  weeks  ago." 

"Well,  then,  Spot,"  says  Mutt,  "maybe  you  want  to 
come  down  here  and  see  what  you  can  do  to  my  other 
three  legs.  I  never  saw  the  day  I  wouldn't  give  you  a 
free  bite  at  one  leg  and  still  be  able  to  lick  you  on  the 
other  three." 

"You  wouldn't  talk  that  way  if  I  was  out  of  this 
cage,"  I  says,  getting  riled. 

"What  did  you  ever  let  yourself  be  put  into  that  fool 
cage  for?"  Mutt  says.  "You  didn't  have  to.  You  got 
such  a  swell  head  on  you  the  last  week  or  so  that  you 
gotto  be  licked.  You  can  fool  boys  and  humans  all 
you  want  to  about  that  accidental  old  lion,  but  us 
dogs  got  your  number,  all  right.  What  that  Blind 
Man's  Dog  from  Chicago  would  do  to  you  would  be 
a  plenty!" 

"Well,  then,"  I  says,  "I'll  be  out  of  this  cage  along 
about  supper  time.  Suppose  you  bring  that  Blind 
Man's  Dog  around  here.  And  if  he  ain't  got  a  spiked 
collar  on  to  him,  I'll  fight  him.  I  won't  fight  a  spike- 
collared  dog  to  please  anybody." 

And  I  wouldn't,  neither,  without  I  had  one  on  myself. 
If  you  can't  get  a  dog  by  the  throat  or  the  back  of  his 
neck,  what's  the  use  of  fighting  him?  You  might  just 


188         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

as  well  try  to  eat  a  blacksmith  shop  as  fight  one  of  those 
spike-collared  dogs. 

"Hey,  there!"  Freckles  yelled  at  Tom  Mulligan,  who 
is  Mutt  Mulligan's  boy.  "You  get  your  fool  dog  away 
from  the  lion-eater's  cage!" 

Tom,  he  histed  Mutt  away.  But  he  says  to  Freckles, 
being  jealous  himself,  "Don't  be  scared,  Freck,  I  won't 
let  my  dog  hurt  yours  any.  Spot,  he's  safe.  He's  in 
a  cage  where  Mutt  can't  get  to  him." 

Freckles  got  riled.  He  says,  "I  ain't  in  any  cage, 
Tom." 

Tom,  he  didn't  want  to  fight  very  bad.  But  all  the 
other  boys  and  dogs  was  looking  on.  And  he'd  sort  of 
started  it.  He  didn't  figure  that  he  could  shut  up  that 
easy.  And  there  was  some  girls  there,  too. 

"If  I  was  to  make  a  pass  at  you,"  says  Tom,  "you'd 
wish  you  was  in  a  cage." 

Freckles,  he  didn't  want  to  fight  so  bad,  either.  But 
he  was  running  this  circus,  and  he  didn't  feel  he  could 
afford  to  pass  by  what  Tom  said  too  easy.  So  he  says : 

"Maybe  you  think  you're  big  enough  to  put  me  into  a 
cage." 

"If  I  was  to  make  a  pass  at  you,"  says  Tom,  "there 
wouldn't  be  enough  left  of  you  to  put  in  a  cage." 

"Well,  then,"  says  Freckles,  "why  don't  you  make  a 
pass  at  me?" 

"Maybe  you  figure  I  don't  dast  to,"  says  Tom. 

"I  didn't  say  you  didn't  dast  to,"  says  Freckles; 
"any  one  that  says  I  said  you  didn't  dast  to  is  a  link, 
link,  liar,  and  so's  his  Aunt  Mariar." 


BEING  A  PUBLIC  CHARACTER          189 

Tom,  he  says,  "I  ain't  got  any  Aunt  Mariar.  And 
you're  another  and  dastn't  back  it." 

Then  some  of  the  other  kids  put  chips  on  to  their 
shoulders.  And  each  dared  the  other  to  knock  his  chip 
off.  And  the  other  kids  pushed  and  jostled  them  into 
each  other  till  both  chips  fell  off,  and  they  went  at  it 
then.  Once  they  got  started  they  got  really  mad  and 
each  did  all  he  knew  how. 

And  right  in  the  midst  of  it  Mutt  run  in  and  bit 
Freckles  on  the  calf  of  his  leg.  Any  dog  will  fight  for 
his  boy  when  his  boy  is  getting  the  worst  of  it.  But 
when  Mutt  did  that  I  give  a  bulge  against  the  wooden 
slats  on  the  cage  and  two  of  them  came  off,  and  I  was 
on  top  of  Mutt.  The  circus  was  in  the  barn,  and  the 
hens  began  to  scream  and  the  horses  began  to  stomp, 
and  all  the  boys  yelled,  "Sick  'im!"  and  "Go  to  it!" 
and  danced  around  and  hollered,  and  the  little  girls 
yelled,  and  all  the  other  dogs  began  to  bark,  and  it  was 
a  right  lively  and  enjoyable  time.  But  Mrs.  Watson, 
Freckles's  mother,  and  the  hired  girl  ran  out  from  the 
house  and  broke  the  fight  up. 

Grown  women  are  like  that.  They  don't  want  to 
fight  themselves,  and  they  don't  seem  to  want  any  one 
else  to  have  any  fun.  You  gotto  be  a  hypocrite  around 
a  grown  woman  to  get  along  with  her  at  all.  And  then 
she'll  feed  you  and  make  a  lot  of  fuss  over  you.  But 
the  minute  you  start  anything  with  real  enjoyment  in  it 
she's  surprised  to  see  you  acting  that  way.  Nobody 
was  licked  satisfactory  in  that  fight,  or  licked  any  one 
else  satisfactory. 


190          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

Well,  that  night  after  supper,  along  comes  that  Blind 
Man's  Dog.  Never  did  I  see  a  Blind  Man's  Dog  that 
was  as  tight-skinned.  I  ain't  a  dog  that  brags,  myself, 
and  I  don't  say  I  would  have  licked  that  heavy  a  dog 
right  easy,  even  if  he  had  been  a  loose-skinned  dog. 
What  I  do  say  is  that  I  had  been  used  to  fighting  loose- 
skinned  dogs  that  you  can  get  some  sort  of  a  reasonable 
hold  on  to  while  you  are  working  around  for  position. 
And  running  into  a  tight-skinned  dog  that  way,  all  of 
a  sudden  and  all  unprepared  for  it,  would  make  anybody 
nervous.  How  are  you  going  to  get  a  purchase  on  a 
tight-skinned  dog  when  you've  been  fighting  loose- 
skinned  dogs  for  so  long  that  your  teeth  and  jaws  just 
naturally  set  themselves  for  a  loose-skinned  dog  with 
out  thinking  of  it? 

Lots  of  dogs  wouldn't  have  fought  him  at  all  when 
they  realized  how  they  had  been  fooled  about  him, 
and  how  tight-skinned  he  was.  But  I  was  a  Public 
Character  now,  and  I  had  to  fight  him.  More  than  that, 
I  ain't  ready  to  say  yet  that  that  dog  actually  licked 
me.  Freckles  he  hit  him  in  the  ribs  with  a  lump  of 
soft  coal,  and  he  got  off  of  me  and  run  away  before  I 
got  my  second  wind.  There's  no  telling  what  I  would 
have  done  to  that  Blind  Man's  Dog,  tight-skinned  as 
he  was,  if  he  hadn't  run  away  before  I  got  my  second 
wind. 

Well,  there's  some  mighty  peculiar  dogs  in  this  world, 
let  alone  boys  and  humans.  The  word  got  around 
town,  in  spite  of  his  running  away  like  that  before  I  got 
my  second  wind,  that  that  Blind  Man's  Dog,  so  called, 


BEING  A  PUBLIC  CHARACTER          191 

had  actually  licked  me!  Many  pretended  to  believe  it. 
Every  time  Freckles  and  me  went  down  the  street  some 
one  would  say : 

"Well,  the  dog  that  licked  the  lion  got  licked  himself, 
did  he?" 

And  if  it  was  a  lady  said  it,  Freckles  would  spit  on 
the  sidewalk  through  the  place  where  his  front  teeth  are 
out  and  pass  on  politely  as  if  he  hadn't  heard,  and  say 
nothing.  And  if  it  was  a  man  that  said  it  Freckles 
would  thumb  his  nose  at  him.  And  if  it  was  a  girl  that 
said  it  he  would  rub  a  handful  of  sand  into  her  hair. 
And  if  it  was  a  boy  anywhere  near  his  size,  there  would 
be  a  fight.  If  it  was  too  big  a  boy,  Freckles  would  sling 
railroad  iron  at  him, 

For  a  week  or  so  it  looked  like  Freckles  and  I  were 
fighting  all  the  time.  Three  or  four  times  a  day,  and 
every  day.  On  the  way  to  school,  and  all  through  recess- 
times,  and  after  school,  and  every  time  we  went  on  to 
the  street.  I  got  so  chewed  and  he  got  so  busted  up  that 
we  didn't  hardly  enjoy  life. 

No  matter  how  much  you  may  like  to  fight,  some  of 
the  time  you  would  like  to  pick  the  fights  yourself  and 
not  have  other  people  picking  them  off  of  you.  Kids 
begun  to  fight  Freckles  that  wouldn't  have  dast  to  stand 
up  to  him  a  month  before.  I  was  still  a  Public  Charac 
ter,  but  I  was  getting  to  be  the  kind  you  josh  about  in 
stead  of  the  kind  you  are  proud  to  feed.  I  didn't  care 
so  awful  much  for  myself,  but  I  hated  it  for  Freckles. 
For  when  they  got  us  pretty  well  hacked,  all  the  boys 
began  to  call  him  Harold  again. 


192          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

And  after  they  had  called  him  Harold  for  a  week  he 
must  have  begun  to  think  of  himself  as  Harold.  For 
one  Saturday  afternoon  when  there  wasn't  any  school, 
instead  of  going  swimming  with  the  other  kids  or  play 
ing  baseball,  or  anything,  he  went  and  played  with  girls. 

He  must  have  been  pretty  well  down-hearted  and  felt 
himself  pretty  much  of  an  outcast,  or  he  wouldn't  have 
done  that.  I  am  an  honest  dog,  and  the  truth  must 
be  told,  the  disgrace  along  with  everything  else,  and 
the  truth  is  that  he  played  with  girls  of  his  own  accord 
that  day — not  because  he  was  sent  to  their  house  on  an 
errand,  not  because  it  was  a  game  got  up  with  boys  and 
girls  together,  not  because  it  was  cousins  and  he  couldn't 
dodgje  them,  but  because  he  was  an  outcast.  Any  boy 
will  play  with  girls  when  all  the  boys  and  girls  are  play 
ing  together,  and  some  girls  are  nearly  as  good  as  boys; 
but  no  boy  is  going  off  alone  to  look  up  a  bunch  of  girls 
and  play  with  them  without  being  coaxed  unless  he  has 
had  considerable  of  a  down-fall. 

Right  next  to  the  side  of  our  yard  was  the  Wilkinses. 
They  had  a  bigger  house  and  a  bigger  yard  than  ours. 
Freckles  was  sitting  on  the  top  of  the  fence  looking 
into  their  orchard  when  the  three  Wilkins  girls  came  out 
to  play.  There  was  only  two  boys  in  the  Wilkins  fam 
ily,  and  they  was  twins;  but  they  were  only  year-old 
babies  and  didn't  amount  to  anything.  The  two  old 
est  Wilkins  girls,  the  taffy-coloured-haired  one  and  the 
squint-eyed  one,  each  had  one  of  the  twins,  taking 
care  of  it.  And  the  other  Wilkins  girl,  the  pretty  one, 
she  had  one  of  those  big  dolls  made  as  big  as  a  baby. 


BEING  A  PUBLIC  CHARACTER          193 

They  were  rolling  those  babies  and  the  doll  around  the 
grass  in  a  wheelbarrow,  and  the  wheel  came  off,  and 
that's  how  Freckles  happened  to  go  over. 

"Up  in  the  attic/'  says  the  taffy-coloured-haired  one, 
when  he  had  fixed  up  the  wheelbarrow,  "there's  a  little 
old  express  wagon  with  one  wheel  off  that  would  be 
better'n  this  wheelbarrow.  Maybe  you  could  fix  that 
wheel  on,  too,  Harold." 

Freckles,  he  fell  for  it.  After  he  got  the  wagon  fixed, 
they  got  to  playing  charades  and  fool  girl  games  like 
that.  The  hired  girl  was  off  for  the  afternoon,  and 
pretty  soon  Mrs.  Wilkins  hollered  up  the  stairs  that  she 
was  going  to  be  gone  for  an  hour,  and  to  take 
good  care  of  the  twins,  and  then  we  were  alone  in 
the  place. 

Well,  it  wasn't  much  fun  for  me.  They  played  and 
they  played,  and  I  stuck  to  Freckles — which  his  name 
was  called  nothing  but  Harold  all  that  afternoon,  and 
for  the  first  time  I  said  to  myself  "Harold"  seemed  to  fit. 
I  stuck  to  him  because  a  dog  should  stick  to  his  boy, 
and  a  boy  should  stick  to  his  dog,  no  matter  what  the 
disgrace.  But  after  while  I  got  pretty  tired  and  lay 
down  on  a  rug,  and  a  new  kind  of  flea  struck  me.  After 
I  had  chased  him  down  and  cracked  him  with  my  teeth 
I  went  to  sleep. 

1  must  have  slept  pretty  sound  and  pretty  long.  All 
of  a  sudden  I  waked  up  with  a  start,  and  almost  choking, 
for  the  place  was  smoky.  1  barked  and  no  one  an 
swered. 

I  ran  out  on  to  the  landing,  and  the  whole  house  was 


194         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

full  of  smoke.  The  house  was  on  fire,  and  it  looked 
like  I  was  alone  in  it.  I  went  down  the  back  stairway, 
which  didn't  seem  so  full  of  smoke,  but  the  door  that 
let  out  on  to  the  first-floor  landing  was  locked,  and  I 
had  to  go  back  up  again. 

By  the  time  I  got  back  up,  the  front  stairway  was 
a  great  deal  fuller  of  smoke,  and  I  could  see  glints  of 
flame  winking  through  it  way  down  below.  But  it  was 
my  only  way  out  of  that  place.  On  the  top  step  I  stum 
bled  over  a  gray  wool  bunch  of  something  or  other,  and 
I  picked  it  up  in  my  mouth.  Thinks  I,  'That  is  Freck- 
les's  gray  sweater,  that  he  is  so  stuck  on.  I  might  as 
well  take  it  down  to  him." 

It  wasn't  so  hard  for  a  lively  dog  to  get  out  of  a  place 
like  that,  I  thought.  But  I  got  kind  of  confused  and 
excited,  too.  And  it  struck  me  all  of  a  sudden,  by  the 
time  I  was  down  to  the  second  floor,  that  that  sweater 
weighed  an  awful  lot. 

I  dropped  it  on  the  second  floor,  and  ran  into  one  of 
the  front  bedrooms  and  looked  out. 

By  jings!  the  whole  town  was  in  the  front  yard  and  in 
the  street. 

And  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  was  Mrs.  Wilkins, 
carrying  on  like  mad. 

"My  baby!"  she  yelled.  "Save  my  baby.  Let  me 
loose!  I'm  going  after  my  baby!" 

I  stood  up  on  my  hind  legs,  with  my  head  just  out 
of  that  bedroom  window,  and  the  flame  and  smoke 
licking  up  all  around  me,  and  barked. 

"My  doggie!     My  doggie!"  yells  Freckles,  who  was 


BEING  A  PUBLIC  CHARACTER          195 

in  the  crowd,  "I  must  save  my  doggie!"  And  he  made 
a  run  for  the  house,  but  someone  grabbed  him  and 
slung  him  back. 

And  Mrs.  Wilkins  made  a  run,  but  they  held  her, 
too.  The  front  of  the  house  was  one  sheet  of  flame. 
Old  Pop  Wilkins,  Mrs.  Wilkins's  husband,  was  jump 
ing  up  and  down  in  front  of  Mrs.  Wilkins  yelling,  here 
was  her  baby.  He  had  a  real  baby  in  one  arm  and 
that  big  doll  in  the  other,  and  was  so  excited  he  thought 
he  had  both  babies.  Later  I  heard  what  had  happened. 
The  kids  had  thought  they  were  getting  out  with  both 
twins  but  one  of  them  had  saved  the  doll  and  left  a 
twin  behind.  The  squint-eyed  girl  and  the  taffy- 
coloured-haired  girl  and  the  pretty  girl  was  howling  as 
loud  as  their  mother.  And  every  now  and  then  some 
man  would  make  a  rush  for  the  front  door,  but  the  fire 
would  drive  him  back.  And  everyone  was  yelling  advice 
to»everyone  else,  except  one  man  who  was  calling  on  the 
whole  town  to  get  him  an  axe.  The  volunteer  fire 
engine  was  there,  but  there  wasn't  any  water  to  squirt 
through  it,  and  it  had  been  backed  up  too  near  the  house 
and  had  caught  fire  and  was  burning  up. 

Well,  I  thinks  that  baby  will  likely  turn  up  in  the 
crowd  somewhere,  after  all,  and  I'd  better  get  out  of 
there  myself  while  the  getting  was  good.  I  ran  out 
of  the  bedroom,  and  run  into  that  bunched-up  gray 
bundle  again. 

I  ain't  saying  that  I  knew  it  was  the  missing  twin 
in  a  gray  shawl  when  I  picked  it  up  the  second  time. 
And  I  ain't  saying  that  I  didn't  know  it.  But  the  fact 


196         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

is  that  I  did  pick  it  up.  I  don't  make  any  brag  that 
I  would  have  risked  my  life  to  save  Freckles's  sweater. 
It  may  be  I  was  so  rattled  I  just  picked  it  up  because 
I  had  had  it  in  my  mouth  before  and  didn't  quite  know 
what  I  was  doing. 

But  the  record  is  something  you  can't  go  behind,  and 
the  record  is  that  I  got  out  the  back  way  and  into  the 
back  yard  with  that  bundle  swinging  from  my  mouth, 
and  walked  round  into  the  front  yard  and  laid  that 
bundle  down — and  it  was  the  twin! 

I  don't  make  any  claim  that  I  knew  it  was  the  twin 
till  I  got  into  the  front  yard,  mind  you.  But  you  can't 
prove  I  didn't  know  it  was. 

And  nobody  tried  to  prove  it.  The  gray  bundle  let 
out  a  squall. 

"My  baby!"  yells  Mrs.  Wilkins.  And  she  kissed  me! 
I  rubbed  it  off  with  my  paw.  And  then  the  taffy- 
coloured-haired  one  kissed  me.  And  the  first  thing  I 
knew  the  pretty  one  kissed  me.  But  when  I  saw  the 
squint-eyed  one  coming  I  got  behind  Freckles  and 
barked. 

'Three  cheers  for  Spot !"  yelled  the  whole  town.  And 
they  give  them. 

And  then  I  saw  what  the  lay  of  the  land  was,  so  I 
wagged  my  tail  and  barked. 

It  called  for  that  hero  stuff,  and  I  throwed  my  head 
up  and  looked  noble — and  pulled  it. 

An  hour  before  Freckles  and  me  had  been  outcasts. 
And  now  we  was  Public  Characters  again.  We  walked 
down  Main  Street,  and  we  owned  it.  And  we  hadn't 


BEING  A  PUBLIC  CHARACTER          197 

any  more  than  got  to  Doc  Watson's  drug  store  than  in 
rushed  Heinle  Hassenyager  with  a  lump  of  Hamburg 
steak,  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"It's  got  chicken  livers  mixed  in  it,  too!"  says  Heinie. 

I  ate  it.     But  while  I  ate  it,  I  growled  at  him. 


WRITTEN  IN  BLOOD 
(As  told  by  the  dogs) 

NEVER  did  I  suppose  that  I  would  be  a  bloodhound 
in  an  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  show.  But  I  have  been  one, 
and  my  constant  wish  is  that  it  has  not  made  me  too 
proud  and  haughty.  For  proud  and  haughty  dogs, 
sooner  or  later,  all  have  their  downfalls.  The  dog  that 
was  the  rightful  bloodhound  in  that  show  was  the 
proudest  and  haughtiest  dog  I  ever  met,  and  he  had 
his  downfall. 

Other  proud  and  haughty  dogs  I  have  seen,  in  my 
time;  and  some  of  them  I  have  licked,  and  some  of  them 
have  licked  me.  For  instance,  there  was  the  one  that 
used  to  be  a  blind  man's  dog  on  a  street  corner  in 
Chicago.  He  was  a  tough,  loud-barking,  red-eyed  dog, 
full  of  suspiciousness  and  fleas;  and  his  disposition 
was  so  bad  that  it  was  even  said  that  if  one  of  his  fleas 
bit  an  ordinary  dog,  that  ordinary  dog  would  swell  up 
where  he  was  bit  as  if  a  hornet  had  stung  him.  He  was 
proud  of  those  fleas  and  proud  of  being  that  ornery; 
but  he  had  his  downfall. 

Another  proud  and  haughty  dog  I  knew  belonged  to 
the  dog  and  pony  part  of  a  circus  that  came  to  our  town 
once.  He  sat  in  a  little  cart  in  the  street  parade,  with 

198 


WRITTEN  IN  BLOOD  199 

a  clown's  hat  and  jacket  on,  and  drove  a  Shetland  pony. 
You  couldn't  get  him  into  a  fight;  he  would  just  grin  and 
say  he  was  worth  too  much  money  to  risk  himself  in 
a  fight,  especially  as  the  money  he  was  worth  did  not 
belong  to  him  anyhow,  but  to  the  circus  that  owned  him. 
He  said  it  wouldn't  be  honest  to  risk  other  people's 
money  just  because  he  wanted  to  fight;  but  I  have 
never  believed  that  he  really  wanted  to  fight.  He 
grinned  mostly  all  the  time,  a  conceited  kind  of  grin, 
and  he  would  up-end  himself  and  stand  on  his  head  for 
you  to  admire  him,  and  then  flop  over  and  bark  and 
look  proud  of  his  own  tricks  and  proud  of  the  money 
he  was  worth.  But  he  had  his  downfall  right  in  the 
midst  of  his  greatest  pride,  for  a  brindle  Tom-cat  with 
one  eye  went  after  him  right  in  the  middle  of  that 
street  parade,  and  he  left  that  cart  very  quickly,  and  it 
nearly  broke  up  the  parade. 

But  the  proudest  and  haughtiest  of  all  was  the  blood 
hound  that  owned  that  Uncle  Tom  show — leastways,  he 
acted  as  if  he  owned  it.  It  was  a  show  that  showed  in 
a  tent,  like  a  regular  circus,  and  it  stayed  in  our  town 
three  days.  It  had  a  street  parade,  too;  and  this  blood 
hound  was  led  along  at  the  head  of  the  street  parade 
with  a  big  heavy  muzzle  on,  and  he  was  loaded  down 
with  chains  and  shackles  so  he  could  hardly  walk.  Be 
sides  the  fellow  that  led  him,  there  were  two  more 
men  that  followed  along  behind  him  and  held  on  to 
chains  that  were  fastened  to  his  collar.  In  front  of  him 
marched  the  Uncle  Tom  of  that  show;  and  every  now 
and  then  the  bloodhound  would  struggle  to  get  at  Uncle 


200         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

Tom  and  be  pulled  back.  He  was  a  very  dangerous- 
looking  dog,  and  you  thought  to  yourself  what  a  lot  of 
damage  he  would  probably  do  if  he  was  ever  to  bite 
those  chains  to  pieces  and  eat  up  those  three  men  that 
held  him  and  chew  Uncle  Tom  and  then  run  loose  into 
the  world.  Every  step  he  took  he  would  toss  his  head 
and  jangle  those  chains  and  growl. 

After  the  parade  was  over,  a  lot  of  us  dogs  and  boys 
went  down  to  the  lot  where  the  show  was  to  be  held. 
We  were  hanging  around  the  tent  where  the  actors 
were  eating,  and  that  bloodhound  dog  was  there  without 
chains  like  any  other  dog,  and  us  dogs  got  to  talking 
with  him. 

"You  country-town  dogs,"  he  says  to  Mutt  Mulligan, 
who  is  a  friend  of  mine  and  some  considerable  dog 
himself,  "don't  want  to  come  fussin'  around  too  close 
to  my  cook  tent  or  my  show!  Us  troupers  ain't  got 
any  too  much  use  for  you  hick  dogs,  anyhow." 

"Oh,  it's  your  show,  is  it?"  says  Mutt. 

"Whose  show  did  you  think  it  was?"  says  that  blood 
hound  dog,  very  haughty. 

"I  thought  from  all  those  chains  and  things,  maybe 
the  show  owned  you,  instead  of  you  owning  the  show," 
says  Mutt. 

"You  saw  who  led  that  street  parade,  didn't  you?" 
says  the  bloodhound  dog.  "Well,  that  ought  to  tell 
you  who  the  chief  actor  of  this  show  is.  This  here  show 
is  built  up  around  me.  If  anything  was  to  happen  to 
me,  there  couldn't  be  any  show." 

Mutt,  he  gave  me  a  signal  with  his  tail  to  edge  in 


WRITTEN  IN  BLOOD  201 

a  little  closer,  and  I  sidled  up  to  where  I  could  grab  a 
front  leg  unexpected  to  him,  if  he  made  a  pass  at  Mutt. 
And  then  Mutt  says,  sneering  so  his  teeth  stuck  out 
and  his  nose  wrinkled: 

"Something's  goin'  to  happen  to  you,  if  you  ain't 
more  polite  and  peaceable  in  your  talk." 

"What's  goin'  to  happen  to  me?"  says  that  bloodhound 
dog. 

"Don't  you  let  them  bristles  rise  around  your  neck," 
says  Mutt,  "or  you'll  find  out  what's  goin'  to  happen 
to  you." 

"Whose  bristles  are  they?"  says  that  bloodhound 
dog. 

"It  don't  make  any  difference  whose  bristles  they 
are,"  says  Mutt.  "No  dog  can  stick  his  bristles  up 
into  my  face  like  that  and  get  away  with  it.  When  I 
see  bristles  stand  up,  I  take  it  personal." 

But  just  then  Old  Uncle  Zeb  White,  who  is  coloured, 
come  amoseyin'  along,  and  that  Tom-show  dog  barked 
out: 

"Somebody  hold  me!  Quick!  Somebody  muzzle 
me !  Somebody  better  put  my  chains  on  to  me  again ! 
Somebody  better  tell  that  coloured  man  to  clear  out  of 
here!  I've  been  trained  to  chase  coloured  men!  What 
do  they  mean  by  letting  that  coloured  man  get  near  my 
show  tent?" 

Old  Uncle  Zeb,  he  is  the  quietest  and  most  peaceable 
person  anywhere,  amongst  dogs,  boys,  or  humans,  and 
the  janitor  of  the  Baptist  church.  He  is  the  only  col 
oured  man  in  our  town,  and  is  naturally  looked  up  to 


202          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

and  respected  with  a  good  deal  of  admiration  and  cu 
riosity  on  that  account,  and  also  because  he  is  two 
hundred  years  old.  He  used  to  be  the  bodyservant  of 
General  George  Washington,  he  says,  until  General 
Washington  set  him  free.  And  then  along  comes  Abra 
ham  Lincoln  after  a  while  and  sets  him  free  again,  he 
says.  And  being  set  free  by  two  prominent  men  like 
that,  Uncle  Zeb  figures  he  is  freer  than  anybody  else, 
and  I  have  heard  him  tell,  time  and  again,  how  he 
can't  speak  kindly  enough  of  them  two  white  gentle 
men. 

"Don't  anybody  sick  me  on  to  that  coloured  man/' 
says  this  bloodhound  dog.  "If  I  was  to  be  sicked 
on  to  that  coloured  man,  this  whole  town  couldn't  pull 
me  off  again !  I  been  trained  to  it,  I  tell  you !" 

Which  it  was  easy  enough  to  see  ,he  really  didn't 
want  to  start  anything;  it  was  just  his  pride  and  haugh 
tiness  working  in  him.  Just  then  Freckles  Watson,  who 
is  my  boy  that  I  own,  and  Tom  Mulligan,  who  is  Mutt 
Mulligan's  boy,  both  says:  "Sick  'im!"  Not  that  they 
understood  what  us  dogs  was  talking  about,  but  they 
saw  me  and  Mutt  sidling  around  that  Tom-show  dog, 
and  it  looked  to  them  like  a  fight  could  be  commenced. 
But  the  Tom-show  dog,  when  he  heard  that  "Sick  'im!" 
jumped  and  caught  Uncle  Zeb  by  a  leg  of  his  trousers. 
Then  Uncle  Zeb's  own  dog,  which  his  name  is  Burning 
Deck  after  a  piece  Uncle  Zeb  heard  recited  one  time, 
comes  a-bulging  and  a-bouncing  through  the  crowd  and 
grabs  that  Tom-show  dog  by  the  neck. 

They  rolled  over  and  over,  and  into  the  eating  tent, 


WRITTEN  IN  BLOOD  203 

and  under  the  table.  The  actors  jumped  up,  and  the 
table  got  tipped  over,  and  the  whole  meal  and  the  tin 
dishes  they  was  eating  off  of  and  all  the  actors  and  the 
benches  and  the  dogs  was  wallowing  and  banging  and 
kicking  and  barking  and  shouting  on  the  ground  in  a 
mess,  and  all  of  us  other  dogs  run  in  to  help  Burning 
Deck  lick  that  bloodhound,  and  all  the  boys  followed 
their  dogs  in  to  see  a  square  deal,  and  then  that  tent 
come  down  on  top  of  everything,  and  believe  me  it  was 
some  enjoyable  time.  And  I  found  quite  a  sizeable 
piece  of  meat  under  there  in  the  mix-up,  and  I  thinks 
to  myself  I  better  eat  that  while  I  can  get  it,  so  I  crawled 
out  with  it.  Outside  is  sitting  Uncle  Zeb,  watching 
that  fallen-down  tent  heaving  and  twisting  and  squirm 
ing,  and  I  heard  him  say  to  himself: 

"White  folks  is  allers  gittin'  up  some  kin'  of  entuh- 
tainment  fo'  us  cullud  people  to  look  at!  Us  cullud 
people  suah  does  git  treated  fine  in  dese  heah  Nothe'n 
towns!" 

Pretty  soon  everybody  comes  crawling  out  from  under 
that  tent,  and  they  straightens  her  up,  and  the  boss  of 
the  show  begins  to  talk  like  Uncle  Zeb  has  done  the 
whole  thing,  and  Uncle  Zeb  just  sits  on  the  grass  and 
smiles  and  scratches  his  head.  And  finally  the  boss  of 
the  show  says  to  Uncle  Zeb  could  he  hire  Burning  Deck 
for  the  bloodhound's  part?  Because  Burning  Deck 
has  just  about  chewed  that  proud  and  haughty  dog  to 
pieces,  and  they've  got  to  have  a  bloodhound! 

"No,  suh,"  says  Uncle  Zeb.  "No,  suh!  I  thank  yo' 
kindly  fo'  yo'  offer,  suh,  but  Burnin'  Deck,  he  ain't 


204          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

gwine  inter  no  show  whah  he  likely  ter  be  sicked  on  ter 
no  cullud  pusson.  Burnin'  Deck,  he  allers  been  a  good 
Republican,  bringed  up  that-a-way,  des  de  same  as  me, 
an'  we  ain't  gwine  ter  take  no  paht  in  any  gwines-on 
agin'  de  cullud  nation." 

"But  see  here,"  says  the  boss.  "In  this  show  the 
coloured  people  get  all  the  best  of  it.  In  this  show  the 
coloured  people  go  to  Heaven!" 

Uncle  Zeb  says  he  had  heard  a  good  deal  about  that 
Uncle  Tom  show  in  his  life,  first  and  last,  and  because 
he  had  heard  so  much,  he  went  to  see  it  one  time.  And 
he  says  if  getting  chased  by  bloodhounds  and  whipped 
by  whips  is  giving  them  the  best  of  it,  he  hopes  he  never 
obtains  admission  to  any  show  where  they  get  the  worst 
of  it.  The  boss,  he  says  that  show  is  the  show  that 
helped  make  the  coloured  people  free,  and  Uncle  Zeb 
ought  to  be  proud  of  Burning  Deck  acting  in  it.  But 
Uncle  Zeb  says  he  ain't  to  be  fooled;  it  was  General 
Washington  set  'em  free  first,  and  Abraham  Lincoln 
set  'em  free  the  second  time,  and  now  President  Wilson 
is  licking  them  Germans  and  setting  them  free  again. 
And  as  for  him,  he  says,  he  will  stick  to  his  own  white 
folks  that  he  knows  and  janitors  for  and  whose  clothes 
fit  him,  and  Burning  Deck  will  do  the  same.  And  as  far 
as  them  Tom-show  coloured  folks'  going  to  heaven  is 
concerned,  he  reckons  he  don't  want  to  be  chased  there 
by  no  bloodhounds;  and  it  ain't  likely  that  a  man  that 
has  janitored  for  a  Baptist  church  as  faithful  as  he  has 
would  go  anywhere  else,  anyhow.  So  he  takes  Burning 
Deck  and  goes  along  home. 


WRITTEN  IN  BLOOD  205 

"I've  got  to  have  a  dog,"  says  the  boss,  watching  them 
get  the  tent  fixed  up,  and  rubbing  his  head. 

"Would  Spot  do?"  says  Freckles,  which  is  my  boy, 
Spot  being  me. 

Well,  I  never  expected  to  be  an  actor,  as  I  said  before. 
But  they  struck  a  bargain,  which  Freckles  was  to  get 
free  admission  to  that  show,  and  I  was  to  be  painted 
and  dyed  up  some  and  be  a  bloodhound.  Which  the 
boss  said  the  regular  bloodhound  which  Burning  Deck 
had  eat  so  much  of  wasn't  really  a  bloodhound,  anyhow, 
but  only  a  big  mongrel  with  bloodhound  notions  in 
his  head. 

Well,  maybe  you've  seen  that  show.  Which  all  the 
bloodhound  has  to  do  is  to  run  across  the  stage  chasing 
that  Uncle  Tom,  and  Freckles  was  to  run  across  with 
me,  so  there  wasn't  much  chance  to  go  wrong. 

And  nothing  would  have  gone  wrong  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  Burning  Deck.  Uncle  Zeb  White  must  have 
got  over  his  grouch  against  that  show,  for  there  he  was 
sitting  in  the  front  row  with  a  new  red  handkerchief 
around  his  throat  and  his  plug  hat  on  his  knees,  and 
Burning  Deck  was  there  with  him.  I  never  had  any 
thing  but  liking  for  Uncle  Zeb,  for  he  knows  where  to 
scratch  dogs.  But  Burning  Deck  and  me  have  never 
been  close  friends,  on  account  of  him  being  jealous 
when  Uncle  Zeb  scratches  you  too  long.  He  even  is 
jealous  when  Uncle  Zeb  scratches  a  pig,  which  all  the 
pigs  in  town  that  can  get  loose  have  a  habit  of  coming 
to  Uncle  Zeb's  cottage  to  be  scratched,  and  they  say 
around  town  that  some  of  those  pigs  never  find  their 


206         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

way  home  again.  Squeals  have  been  heard  coming 
from  Uncle  Zeb's  kitchen,  but  the  rest  of  the  pigs  never 
seem  to  learn. 

But  no  self-respecting  dog  would  be  jealous  if  his  boss 
scratched  a  pig.  For  after  all,  what  is  a  pig?  It  is 
just  a  pig,  and  that  is  all  you  can  say  for  it.  A  pig 
is  not  a  person;  a  pig  is  something  to  eat.  But  Burning 
Deck  is  a  peculiar  dog,  and  he  gets  ideas  into  his  head. 
And  so,  right  in  the  midst  of  the  show,  when  I  chased 
that  coloured  man  across  the  stage,  Burning  Deck  all  of 
a  sudden  jumped  up  on  to  the  platform  and  grabbed  me. 
I  would  have  licked  him  then  and  there,  but  what  was 
left  of  the  show's  bloodhound  come  crawling  out  on  to 
the  stage  dragging  two  of  his  legs,  and  Burning  Deck 
turned  from  me  to  him,  and  then  all  the  actors  run  on  to 
the  stage  to  save  what  was  left  of  the  bloodhound,  and 
Si  Emery,  the  city  marshal,  threw  open  his  coat  so 
you  could  see  his  big  star  and  climbed  on  to  the  stage 
and  arrested  everybody,  and  somebody  dropped  the 
curtain  down  right  into  the  midst  of  it. 

And  the  way  it  happened,  on  the  outside  of  the  cur 
tain  was  left  Freckles  and  me  and  the  Little  Eva  of  that 
show,  which  she  is  beautiful,  with  long  yellow  hair  and 
pink  cheeks  and  white  clothes  like  an  angel.  And  be 
fore  Freckles  could  stop  her,  she  took  hold  of  him  by 
the  hand  and  says  to  the  audience  won't  they  please 
be  kind  to  the  poor  travelling  troupers  and  not  let  them 
be  under  arrest,  and  let  the  show  go  on?  And  she  cried 
considerable,  and  all  through  her  crying  you  could  hear 
Si  Emery  behind  the  curtain  arresting  people;  and 


WRITTEN  IN  BLOOD  207 

after  while  some  of  the  women  in  the  audience  got  to 
crying,  too,  and  the  city  fathers  was  all  in  the  audience, 
and  they  went  up  on  to  the  stage  and  told  Si,  for  the 
sake  of  Little  Eva,  to  release  everyone  he  had  arrested, 
and  after  that  the  show  went  on. 

Well,  after  the  show  was  out,  quite  a  lot  of  the  dogs 
and  boys  that  was  friends  of  mine  and  of  Freckles  was 
waiting  for  us.  Being  in  a  show  like  that  made  us 
heroes.  But  some  of  them  were  considerably  jealous 
of  us,  too,  and  there  would  have  been  some  fights,  but 
Freckles  says  kind  of  dignified  that  he  does  not  care  to 
fight  until  his  show  is  out  of  town,  but  after  that  he  will 
take  on  any  and  all  who  dare — that  is,  he  says,  if  he 
doesn't  decide  to  go  with  that  show,  which  the  show  is 
crazy  to  have  him  do.  And  me  and  him  and  Stevie 
Stevenson,  which  is  his  particular  chum,  goes  off  and 
sets  down  on  the  schoolhouse  steps,  and  Stevie  tells 
him  what  a  good  actor  he  was,  running  across  the  stage 
with  me  after  that  Uncle  Tom.  But  Freckles,  he  is 
sad  and  solemn,  and  he  only  fetches  a  sigh. 

"What's  eatin'  you,  Freckles?"  Stevie  asks  him. 
Freckles,  he  sighs  a  couple  of  times  more,  and  then  he 
says: 

"Stevie,  I'm  in  love/' 

"Gosh,  Freckles/'  says  Stevie.     "Honest?" 

"Honest  Injun,"  says  Freckles. 

"Do  you  know  who  with?"  says  Stevie. 

"Uh-huh!"  says  Freckles.  "If  you  didn't  know  who 
with,  how  would  you  know  you  was?" 

But  Stevie,  he  says  you  might  be  and  not  know  who 


208         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

with,  easy  enough.  Once,  he  says,  he  was  like  that. 
He  says  he  was  feeling  kind  of  queer  for  a  couple  of 
weeks  last  spring,  and  they  dosed  him  and  dosed  him, 
with  sassafras  and  worm-medicine  and  roots  and  herbs, 
and  none  of  it  did  any  good.  His  mother  says  it  is 
growing-pains,  and  his  father  says  it  is  either  laziness 
and  not  wanting  to  hoe  in  the  garden  or  else  it  is  a 
tapeworm.  And  he  thinks  himself  maybe  it  is  be 
cause  he  is  learning  to  chew  and  smoke  tobacco  on  the 
sly  and  keeps  swallowing  a  good  deal  of  it  right  along. 
But  one  day  he  hears  his  older  sister  and  another  big 
girl  talking  when  they  don't  know  he  is  around,  and 
they  are  in  love,  both  of  them,  and  from  what  he  can 
make  out,  their  feelings  is  just  like  his.  And  it  come 
to  him  all  of  a  sudden  he  must  be  in  love  himself,  and 
it  was  days  and  days  before  he  found  out  who  it  was 
that  he  was  in  love  with. 

"Who  was  it?"  asks  Freckles. 

"It  turned  out  to  be  Mabel  Smith/'  says  Stevie,  "and 
I  was  scared  plumb  to  death  for  a  week  or  two  that  she 
would  find  out  about  it.  I  used  to  put  toads  down  her 
back  and  stick  burrs  into  her  hair  so  she  wouldn't  never 
guess  it." 

Stevie  says  he  went  through  days  and  days  of  it, 
and  for  a  while  he  was  scared  that  it  might  last  forever, 
and  he  don't  ever  want  to  be  in  love  again.  Suppose  it 
should  be  found  out  on  a  fellow  that  he  was  in  love? 

"Stevie,"  says  Freckles,  "this  is  different." 

Stevie  asks  him  how  he  means. 

"I  want  her  to  know,"  says  Freckles. 


WRITTEN  IN  BLOOD  209 

"Great  Scott!"  says  Stevie.     "No!" 

"Uh-huh!" 

"It  don't  show  on  you,  Freckles,"  says  Stevie. 

Freckles  says  of  course  it  don't  show.  Only  first 
love  shows,  he  says.  Once  before  he  was  in  love,  he 
says,  and  that  showed  on  him.  That  was  last  spring, 
and  he  was  only  a  kid  then,  and  he  was  in  love  with 
Miss  Jones,  the  school  teacher,  and  didn't  know  how 
to  hide  it.  But  this  time  he  can  hide  it,  because  this 
time  he  feels  that  it  is  different.  He  swallows  down 
the  signs  of  it,  he  says,  the  way  you  keep  swallowing 
down  the  signs  of  it  when  you  have  something  terrible 
like  heart-disease  or  stomach-trouble,  and  nobody 
will  ever  know  it  about  him,  likely,  till  after  he  is  dead. 

And  when  he  is  dead,  Freckles  says,  they  will  all 
wonder  what  he  died  of,  and  maybe  he  will  leave  a  note, 
wrote  in  his  own  blood,  to  tell.  And  they  will  all  come 
in  Injun  file  and  pass  through  the  parlour,  he  says,  where 
his  casket  will  be  set  on  to  four  chairs,  and  She  will  come 
filing  by  and  look  at  him,  and  she  will  say  not  to  bury 
him  yet,  for  there  is  a  note  held  tight  in  his  hand. 

And  everybody  will  say:  "A  note?  A  note?  Who 
can  it  be  to?" 

And  She  will  say  to  pardon  her  for  taking  the  liberty 
at  a  time  like  this,  but  She  has  saw  her  own  name 
on  to  that  note.  And  then,  Freckles  says,  She  will  open 
it  and  read  it  out  loud  right  there  in  the  parlour  to  all 
of  them,  and  they  will  all  say  how  the  departed  must 
have  liked  her  to  draw  up  a  note  to  her  wrote  in  his 
own  blood  like  that. 


210          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

And  then,  Freckles  says,  She  will  say,  yes,  he  must 
have  liked  her,  and  that  she  liked  him  an  awful  lot, 
too,  but  She  never  knew  he  liked  her,  and  She  wished 
now  she  had  of  known  he  liked  her  an  awful  lot,  be 
cause  to  write  a  note  in  his  own  blood  like  that  showed 
that  he  liked  her  an  awful  lot,  and  if  he  only  was  alive 
now  she  would  show  she  liked  him  an  awful  lot  and 
would  kiss  him  to  show  it.  And  she  would  not  be  scared 
to  kiss  him  in  front  of  all  those  people  standing  around 
the  sides  of  the  parlour,  dead  or  alive.  And  then  she 
would  kiss  him,  Freckles  says.  And  maybe,  Freckles 
says,  he  wouldn't  be  dead  after  all,  but  only  just  lying 
there  like  the  boy  that  travelled  around  with  the 
hypnotizer  who  was  put  in  a  store  window  and  laid 
there  all  the  time  the  hypnotizer  was  in  town  with  every 
body  making  bets  whether  they  could  see  him  breathing 
or  not.  And  then,  Freckles  says,  he  would  get  up  out 
of  his  casket,  and  his  Sunday  suit  with  long  pants 
would  be  on,  and  he  would  take  the  note  and  say:  "Yes, 
it  is  to  you,  and  I  wrote  it  with  my  own  blood!" 

Which,  Freckles  says,  he  has  a  loose  tooth  he  could 
suck  blood  out  of  any  time,  not  wanting  to  scrape  his 
arm  on  account  of  blood  poison  breaking  out.  Though 
he  says  he  had  thought  of  using  some  of  Spot's  blood, 
but  that  would  seem  disrespectful,  somehow.  And  the 
tooth-blood  seemed  disrespectful,  too,  for  he  did  not 
know  the  girl  right  well.  But  it  would  have  to  be  the 
tooth-blood,  he  guessed,  for  there  was  a  fellow  out  by 
the  county  line  got  lockjaw  from  blood  poison  breaking 
out  on  him,  and  died  of  it.  And  when  She  handed  him 


. 


WRITTEN  IN  BLOOD  211 


the  note,  Freckles  says,  he  would  tell  the  people  in  the 
parlour:  "Little  Eva  and  I  forgive  you  all!" 

"Little  Eva!"  says  Stevie.  "Gosh  all  fish  hooks, 
Freckles,  it  ain't  the  girl  in  the  show,  is  it?" 

"Uh-huh!"  says  Freckles,  kind  of  sad  and  proud. 

"Freckles,"  says  Stevie,  after  they  had  both  set  there 
and  thought,  saying  nothing,  for  a  while,  "I  got  just 
one  more  question  to  ask  you :  Are  you  figuring  you  will 
get  married?  Is  it  as  bad  as  that?" 

"Uh-huh!"  says  Freckles. 

Stevie,  he  thought  for  another  while,  and  then  he 
got  up  and  put  his  hand  on  to  Freckles's  shoulder. 

"Freckles,  old  scout,"  he  says,  "good-bye.  I'm  awful 
sorry  for  you,  but  I  can't  chase  around  with  you  any 
more.  I  can't  be  seen  running  with  you.  I  won't  tell 
this  on  you,  but  if  it  was  ever  to  come  out  I  wouldn't 
want  to  be  too  thick  with  you.  You  know  what  the 
Dalton  Gang  would  do  to  you,  Freck,  if  they  ever  got 
on  to  this.  I  won't  blab,  but  I  can't  take  no  risks  about 
chumming  with  you." 

And  he  went  away  and  left  Freckles  and  me  sitting 
there.  But  in  a  minute  he  came  back  and  said: 

"Freckles,  you  know  that  iron  sling-shot  crotch  of 
mine?  You  always  used  to  be  stuck  on  that  sling 
shot  crotch,  Freckles,  and  I  never  would  trade  it  to  you. 
Well,  Freckles,  you  can  have  that  darned  old  iron  sling 
shot  crotch  free  for  nothing!" 

"Stevie,"  says  Freckles,  "I  don't  want  it." 

"Gosh!"  says  Stevie,  and  he  went  off,  shaking  his 
head. 


212          THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

And  I  was  considerable  worried  myself.  I  tagged 
him  along  home,  and  he  wasn't  natural.  He  went  into 
the  house,  and  I  tagged  him  along  in  and  up  to  his 
room,  and  he  took  no  notice  of  me,  though  I'm  not  sup 
posed  to  be  there  at  all. 

And  what  do  you  suppose  that  kid  did? — he  went  and 
washed  his  ears.  It  was  midnight,  and  there  wasn't 
any  one  to  make  him  do  it,  and  there  wasn't  any  one 
to  see  his  ears  but  me,  but  he  washed  'em  careful,  in 
side  and  out.  And  then  he  wet  his  hair  and  combed  it. 
First  he  parted  it  on  one  side,  and  then  he  parted  it 
on  the  other,  and  then  he  blushed  and  parted  it  in 
the  middle.  I  was  sitting  on  the  floor  by  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  and  he  was  facing  the  looking-glass,  but  I  saw  the 
blush  because  it  spread  clear  around  to  the  back  of  his 
neck. 

And  then  he  went  to  the  closet  and  put  on  his  long 
pants  that  belonged  to  his  Sunday  suit.  The  looking- 
glass  wasn't  big  enough  so  he  could  see  his  hair  and  his 
long  pants  all  at  the  same  time,  but  he  tilted  the  glass 
and  squirmed  and  twisted  around  and  saw  them  bit  by 
bit.  At  first  I  thought  maybe  he  was  going  out  again, 
even  at  that  time  of  night,  but  he  wasn't;  all  he  was 
doing  was  admiring  himself.  Just  then  his  father 
pounded  on  the  wall  and  asked  him  if  he  wasn't  in 
bed  yet,  and  he  said  he  was  going.  He  put  the 
light  out  right  away.  But  he  didn't  go  to  bed.  He 
just  sat  in  the  dark  with  his  clean  ears  and  his  long 
pants  on  and  his  hair  parted  in  the  middle,  and  several 
times  before  I  went  to  sleep  myself  I  heard  him  sigh 


WRITTEN  IN  BLOOD  213 

and  say:  "Little  Eva!  Little  Eva's  dying!  Little 
Eva!" 

He  must  have  got  so  tired  he  forgot  to  undress, 
staying  up  that  late  and  everything,  for  in  the  morning 
when  his  father  pounded  on  the  door  he  didn't  answer. 
I  was  under  the  bed,  and  I  stayed  there.  Pretty  soon 
his  father  pounded  again,  and  then  he  came  into  the 
room.  And  there  Freckles  was  lying  on  the  bed  with 
his  Sunday  pants  on  and  his  hair  parted  in  the  middle 
and  his  ears  clean. 

"Harold!"  says  his  father,  and  shook  him,  "what 
does  this  mean?" 

Harold  is  Freckles's  other  name,  but  if  any  one  of 
his  size  calls  him  Harold,  there  will  be  a  fight.  He  sat 
up  on  the  bed  and  says,  still  sleepy: 

"What  does  what  mean,  Pa?" 

"Your  lying  there  asleep  with  your  clothes  on,"  says 
his  father. 

"I  was  dressing,  and  I  went  to  sleep  again,"  says 
Freckles. 

"Uh-huh!"  says  his  father.  "It  looks  like  it,  don't  it?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  Freckles. 

I  had  crawled  out  to  the  foot  of  the  bed  where  I 
could  see  them,  and  he  was  still  sleepy,  but  he  was 
trying  hard  to  think  up  something. 

"It  looks  a  lot  like  it,"  says  his  father.  "If  you  had 
slept  in  that  bed,  the  covers  would  have  been  turned 
down,  wouldn't  they?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  Freckles,  looking  at  them. 

"Well,  what  then?"  says  his  father. 


214         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

"Well,  Pa,"  says  Freckles,  "I  guess  I  must  have  made 
that  bed  up  again  in  my  sleep,  and  I  never  knew  it." 

"Humph!"  says  his  father.     "Do  you  do  that  often?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  Freckles,  "a  good  deal  lately." 

"Harold,"  says  his  father,  real  interested,  "aren't 
you  feeling  well  these  days?" 

"No,  Pa,"  says  Freckles,  "I  ain't  felt  so  very  well 
for  quite  a  while." 

"Humph!"  says  his  pa.  "How  does  it  come  when 
you  dressed  yourself  you  put  on  your  Sunday  pants,  and 
this  is  only  Tuesday?" 

Harold  says  he  guesses  he  did  that  in  his  sleep,  too, 
the  same  time  he  made  the  bed  up. 

His  pa  wants  to  know  if  that  has  ever  happened  to 
him  before. 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  Freckles,  "once  I  woke  up  in  the  moon 
light  right  out  on  one  of  the  top  limbs  of  the  big  maple 
tree  in  the  front  yard,  with  my  Sunday  suit  on." 

"Humph!"  says  his  father.  "And  was  your  hair 
parted  in  the  middle  that  time,  too?" 

Freckles,  he  blushes  till  you  can  hardly  see  his  freck 
les,  and  feels  of  his  hair.  But  he  is  so  far  in,  now,  that 
he  can't  get  out.  So  he  says : 

"Yes,  sir,  every  time  I  get  taken  that  way,  so  I  go 
around  in  my  sleep,  Pa,  I  find  my  hair  has  been  parted 
in  the  middle,  the  next  morning." 

"Uh-huh !"  says  his  pa.  "Let's  see  your  ears."  And 
he  pinched  one  of  them  while  he  was  looking  at  it, 
and  Freckles  says,  "Ouch!" 

"I  thought  so,"  says  his  pa,  but  didn't  say  what  he 


WRITTEN  IN  BLOOD  215 

thought  right  away.  Then  pretty  soon  he  says:  "Those 
ears  have  been  washed  since  that  neck  has/' 

"Yes,  sir/'  says  Freckles. 

"Did  you  do  that  in  your  sleep,  too?" 

"Yes,  sir/' 

"Do  you  always  do  that  when  you  have  those  spells 
of  yours?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  always  find  my  ears  have  been  washed 
the  next  morning/' 

"But  never  your  neck?" 

"Sometimes  my  neck  has,  and  sometimes  it  hasn't," 
said  Freckles. 

"Uh-huh!"  says  his  father,  and  took  notice  of  me. 
I  wagged  my  tail,  and  hung  my  tongue  out,  and  acted 
friendly  and  joyful  and  happy.  If  you  want  to  stay 
on  good  terms  with  grown-up  humans,  you  have  to 
keep  them  jollied  along.  I  wasn't  supposed  to  be  in 
the  house  at  night,  anyhow,  but  I  hoped  maybe  it  would 
be  overlooked. 

"Did  you  paint  and  dye  that  dog  up  that  way?"  asked 
Freckles's  father.  For  of  course  the  paint  and  dye 
they  had  put  on  me  was  still  there. 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  Freckles.  "Nearly  always  when  I 
come  to  myself  in  the  morning  I  find  I  have  dyed  Spot." 

"That's  queer,  too,"  said  his  father.  And  then  Harold 
says  he  dyes  other  dogs,  too,  and  once  when  he  woke 
up  in  the  maple  tree  there  were  three  strange  dogs  he 
had  dyed  at  the  foot  of  it. 

"Harold,"  says  his  father,  "how  often  do  these  spells 
come  on?" 


216         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

Freckles,  he  says,  some  weeks  they  come  often  and 
some  weeks  hardly  ever. 

"Humph!"  says  his  father.  "And  when  they  come 
on,  do  you  notice  it  is  harder  for  you  to  tell  the  truth 
than  at  any  other  times?" 

Freckles  says  he  doesn't  know  what  he  says  in  his 
sleep  when  those  spells  take  him,  nor  even  whether  he 
talks  in  his  sleep  or  not,  but  he  guesses  if  he  does  talk 
in  his  sleep  what  he  says  would  be  talk  about  his  dreams, 
but  he  can't  remember  what  his  dreams  are,  so  he 
doesn't  know  whether  what  he  says  is  true  or  not. 

"Uh-huh!"  says  his  father.  "Harold,  do  you  own 
a  gun?" 

"No,  sir,"  says  Harold.  Which  is  true,  for  he  only 
owns  a  third  interest  in  a  gun.  Tom  Mulligan  and 
Stevie  Stevenson  own  the  rest  of  it,  and  they  are  keep 
ing  it  hid  in  the  rafters  of  Tom  Mulligan's  barn  till  they 
can  save  money  enough  to  get  it  fixed  so  it  will  shoot. 

"You  haven't  killed  anybody  in  these  spells  of  yours, 
have  you,  Harold?"  asks  his  father. 

"No,  sir,"  says  Freckles. 

"How  would  you  know  if  you  had?"  asks  his  father. 

Freckles  says  there  would  be  blood  on  him  next  morn 
ing,  wouldn't  there? 

"Not,"  says  his  father,  "if  you  stood  at  a  distance 
and  killed  them  with  a  gun." 

Freckles  knows  he  hasn't  ever  really  had  any  of  these 
spells  he  says  he  has  had,  but  from  his  looks  I  should 
judge  he  was  scared,  too,  by  the  way  his  father  was 
acting. 


WRITTEN  IN  BLOOD  217 

"Pa,"  he  says,  "has  any  one  been  found  dead?" 

"The  body  hasn't  been  found  yet,"  says  his  father, 
"but  from  what  I  heard  you  say,  early  this  morning  in 
your  sleep,  I  should  judge  one  will  be  found." 

I  thinks  to  myself  maybe  Freckles  does  do  things  in 
his  sleep  after  all,  and  from  the  looks  of  his  face  he 
thinks  so,  too.  He  is  looking  scared. 

"Pa,"  he  says,  "who  did  1  kill?    What  did  I  say?" 

"You  said:  'Little  Eva's  dying!  Little  Eva's 
dying!'  "  said  his  father.  "I  heard  you  say  it  over  and 
over  again  in  your  sleep." 

Freckles,  he  gets  red  in  the  face  again,  and  stares  at 
his  feet,  and  his  pa  stands  and  grins  at  him  for  a  minute 
or  two.  And  then  his  pa  says:  "Get  into  your  week 
day  clothes  and  wash  your  face  and  neck  to  match  your 
ears,  and  come  on  down  to  breakfast.  When  you  get 
ready  to  tell  what's  on  your  mind,  all  right;  but  don't 
try  to  tell  lies  to  your  dad." 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  Freckles. 

But  he  looked  mighty  gloomy.  And  when  his  father 
went  out  of  the  room  he  got  his  fountain  pen  and  sucked 
some  blood  out  of  his  loose  tooth  and  tried  to  spit  it 
into  his  fountain  pen.  From  which  I  judgedjie  was 
still  of  a  notion  to  write  that  letter  and  was  pretty  low 
in  his  mind.  But  he  couldn't  spit  it  into  the  pen,  right. 
And  he  cried  a  little,  and  then  saw  me  watching  him 
crying  and  slapped  at  me  with  a  hairbrush;  and  then 
he  petted  me  and  I  let  him  pet  me,  for  a  dog,  if  he  is 
any  sort  of  dog  at  all,  will  always  stand  by  his  boy  in 
trouble  as  well  as  gladness,  and  overlook  things.  A 


218         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

boy  hasn't  got  much  sense,  anyhow;  and  a  boy  without 
a  dog  to  keep  him  steered  right  must  have  a  pretty 
tough  time  in  the  world. 

If  he  was  low  in  his  mind  then,  he  was  lower  in  his 
mind  before  the  day  was  through.  For  after  breakfast 
there  was  Stevie  Stevenson  and  Tom  Mulligan  waiting 
for  him  outside,  and  in  spite  of  his  promise,  Stevie  has 
told  everything  to  Tom.  And  Tom  has  a  wart  and 
offers  some  wart  blood  to  write  that  letter  in.  But 
Freckles  says  another  person's  blood  would  not  be  fair 
and  honourable.  He  has  a  wart  of  his  own,  if  he 
wanted  to  use  wart  blood,  but  wart  blood  is  not  to  be 
thought  of.  What  would  a  lady  think  if  she  found  out 
it  was  wart  blood?  It  would  be  almost  and  insult,  wart 
blood  would;  it  would  be  as  bad  as  blood  from  a  corn 
or  bunion. 

"Well,  then,"  says  Stevie,  "the  truth  is  that  you 
don't  want  to  write  that  letter,  anyhow.  Last  night 
you  talked  big  about  writing  that  letter,  but  this  morn 
ing  you're  hunting  up  excuses  for  not  writing  it." 

"I'll  write  it  if  I  want  to  write  it,  and  you  can't  stop 
me,"  says  Freckles.  "And  I  won't  write  it  if  I  don't 
want  to  write  it,  and  nobody  of  your  size  can  make  me." 

"I  can  too  stop  you,"  says  Stevie,  "if  I  want  to." 

"You  don't  dast  to  want  to  stop  me,"  says  Freckles. 

"I  do  dast,"  says  Stevie. 

"You  don't,"  says  Freckles. 

"I  do,"  says  Stevie. 

"You're  a  licked,  licked  liar— and  so's  your  Aunt 
Mariar,"  says  Freckles. 


WRITTEN  IN  BLOOD  219 

"I  ain't  got  any  Aunt  Mariar,"  says  Stevie. 

"You  don't  dast  to  have  an  Aunt  Mariar/'  says 
Freckles. 

"I  do  dast,"  says  Stevie. 

Then  Tom  put  a  chip  on  each  of  their  shoulders,  and 
pushed  them  at  each  other,  and  the  chips  fell  off,  and 
they  went  down  behind  the  barn  and  had  it  out,  and 
Freckles  licked  him.  Which  proves  Freckles  couldn't  be 
stopped  from  writing  that  note  if  he  wanted  to,  and  he 
was  still  so  mad  that  he  wrote  it  right  then  and  there 
back  of  the  barn  on  a  leaf  torn  out  of  a  notebook  Tom 
Mulligan  owned,  with  his  fountain  pen,  using  his  own 
nose  bleed  that  Stevie  had  just  drawed  out  of  him;  and 
he  read  out  loud  what  he  wrote.  It  was : 

Dear  Miss  Little  Eva:  The  rose  is  red,  the  violet's  blue. 
Sugar  is  sweet  and  so  are  you.  Yours  truly.  Mr.  H.  Watson. 
This  is  wrote  in  my  own  blood. 

"Well,  now,  then,"  says  Stevie,  "where's  the  coffin?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  the  coffin?"  says  Freckles. 

"Last  night,"  says  Stevie,  "you  was  makin'  a  lot  of 
brags,  but  this  morning  it  looks  like  you  didn't  have  the 
sand  to  act  up  to  them." 

"If  you  think  you've  got  size  enough  to  make  me  lay 
down  into  a  coffin  with  that  note,"  says  Freckles,  "you 
got  another  think  comin'  to  you.  There  ain't  a  kid 
my  size,  nor  anywhere  near  my  size,  in  this  whole  town 
can  make  me  lay  down  into  a  coffin  with  that  note. 
And  if  you  think  so,  you  just  try  it  on !" 

Stevie,  he  doesn't  want  to  fight  any  more.     But  Tom 


220         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

Mulligan  says  never  mind  the  casket.  Nobody  really 
wants  him  to  lay  in  a  casket  anyhow.  He  says  he  is 
willing  to  bet  a  million  dollars  Freckles  doesn't  dast  to 
carry  that  note  to  the  show  grounds  and  give  it  to  that 
Little  Eva. 

"I  dast!  "says  Freckles. 

"Dastn't!"  says  Tom. 

"You  don't  dast  to  knock  this  chip  of!  my  shoulder," 
says  Freckles. 

"I  dast!"  says  Tom.  And  Stevie  give  him  a  push, 
and  he  did  it.  And  they  had  it.  Freckles  got  him 
down  and  jammed  his  head  into  the  ground. 

"Now,  then,"  he  says,  "do  I  dast  to  carry  that  note, 
or  don't  I  dast  to?" 

"You  dast  to,"  says  Tom.    "Leave  me  up." 

And  that  was  the  way  it  come  about  that  Freckles 
had  to  carry  the  note,  though  not  wanting  to  at  all. 
But  he  did  it.  We  all  went  with  him  over  to  the  show 
grounds,  Stevie  Stevenson  and  Tom  Mulligan  and 
Mutt,  Tom's  dog,  and  me. 

There  was  a  lady  sitting  out  in  front  of  one  of  the 
tents  on  a  chair.  She  had  been  washing  her  hair,  and 
it  was  spread  out  to  dry  over  her  shoulders,  and  she  was 
sewing  on  a  pair  of  boy's  pants.  She  had  on  a  pair  of 
those  big  horn-rimmed  glasses,  and  we  could  see  from 
her  hair,  which  had  gray  in  it,  that  she  was  quite  an 
old  lady,  though  small.  I  heard  later  that  she  was  all 
of  thirty-five  or  thirty-six  years  old. 

The  rest  of  us  hung  back  a  little  ways,  and  Freckles 
went  up  to  her  and  took  off  his  hat. 


WRITTEN  IN  BLOOD  221 

She  laid  down  her  sewing  and  smiled  at  him. 

"Well,  my  little  man,  what  is  it?"  she  said.  "Were 
you  looking  for  somebody  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  says  Freckles.  He  stuttered  a  little 
and  he  was  standing  on  one  foot. 

"For  whom?"  she  asked. 

"For  Little  Eva,"  says  Freckles. 

The  lady  stared  at  him,  and  then  she  smiled  again. 

"And  what  do  you  want  with  Little  Eva,  sonny?" 
she  said. 

Freckles,  he  stands  on  the  other  foot  a  while,  and  says 
nothing.  And  like  as  not  he  would  have  backed  away, 
but  Tom  Mulligan  yells:  "You  don't  dast  give  it  to  her, 
Freck!" 

Then  Freckles  hands  her  the  letter  and  gulps  and 
says:  "A  letter  for  Miss  Little  Eva." 

The  lady  takes  it  and  reads  it.  And  then  she 
reads  it  again.  And  then  she  calls  out:  "Jim!  Oh, 
Jim!" 

A  man  comes  out  of  the  tent,  and  she  hands  it  to  him. 
He  reads  it,  and  his  mouth  drops  open,  and  a  pipe  he  is 
smoking  falls  on  to  the  grass. 

"Jim,"  says  the  lady,  "someone  is  making  love  to 
your  wife!" 

Jim,  he  reads  the  letter  again,  and  then  he  laughs. 
He  laughes  so  hard  he  bends  double,  and  catches  the 
back  of  the  lady's  chair.  And  she  laughs  of  a  sudden 
and  puts  her  hand  in  front  of  her  face  and  laughs 
again.  And  then  Jim,  he  says  to  Freckles,  who  has 
been  getting  redder  and  redder: 


222    THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

"And  who  is  Mr.  H.  Watson?" 

"Don't  you  get  it?"  says  the  lady,  taking  off  her 
glasses  to  wipe  them,  and  pointing  to  Freckles.  "This 
is  the  boy  that  owns  the  dog  that  played  the  blood 
hound  last  night,  and  he  is  Mr.  H.  Watson!" 

And  when  she  took  off  her  glasses  like  that,  we  all  saw 
she  was  the  Little  Eva  of  that  show! 

"Mr.  H.  Watson,"  says  Jim  to  Freckles,  "did  you  in 
tend  matrimony,  or  were  you  trying  to  flirt?" 

"Quit  your  kidding  him,  Jim,"  says  Little  Eva,  still 
laughing.  "Can't  you  see  he's  hacked  nearly  to 
death?" 

"None  of  your  business  what  I  intended!"  yells 
Freckles  to  Jim.  And  he  picks  up  a  clod  of  dirt  and 
nearly  hits  Jim  with  it,  and  runs.  And  we  all  run. 
But  when  we  had  run  half  a  block,  we  looked  back,  and 
nobody  was  following  us.  Jim  and  Little  Eva  had 
busted  out  laughing  again,  and  was  laughing  so  hard 
they  was  hanging  on  to  each  other  to  keep  from  falling 
down. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  H.  Watson,"  yells  Jim.  "Is  k  really 
your  own  blood?" 

And  then  began  a  time  of  disgrace  for  Freckles  and 
me  such  as  I  never  hope  to  live  through  again.  For  the 
next  thing  those  two  boys  that  had  been  his  friends  was 
both  dancing  round  him  laughing  and  calling  him  Mr. 
H.  Watson;  and  by  the  time  we  got  down  to  the  part  of 
Main  Street  where  the  stores  are,  every  boy  and  every 
dog  in  town  was  dancing  around  Freckles  and  hearing 
all  about  it  and  yelling,  "H.  Watson!  Mr.  H.  Watson! 


WRITTEN  IN  BLOOD  223 

Is  it  your  own  blood?  Is  it  your  own  blood,  Mr.  H. 
Watson?" 

Freckles  and  I  did  the  best  we  could,  fighting  all 
that  was  our  size  and  some  bigger;  but  after  a  couple  of 
hours  it  got  so  that  most  any  one  could  lick  us.  Kids 
that  was  afraid  to  stand  up  to  him  the  day  before  could 
lick  him  easy,  by  now,  and  dogs  I  had  always  despised 
even  to  argue  with  began  to  get  my  number.  All  you 
could  hear,  on  every  side,  was:  "Is  it  your  own  blood, 
Mr.  Watson?" 

And  at  noon  we  went  home,  but  Freckles  didn't  go 
into  the  house  for  dinner  at  all.  Instead,  he  went  out 
to  the  barn  and  laid  down  in  the  hay,  and  I  crawled  in 
there  with  him.  And  he  cried  and  cried  and  choked 
and  choked.  I  felt  sorry  for  him,  and  crawled  up  and 
licked  his  face.  But  he  took  me  by  the  scruff  of  the 
neck  and  slung  me  out  of  the  haymow.  When  I  crawled 
back  again,  he  kicked  me  in  the  ribs,  but  he  had  on 
tennis  shoes  and  it  didn't  hurt  much,  and  anyhow  I  for 
gave  him.  And  I  went  and  crawled  back  to  where  he 
was  and  nuzzled  my  head  up  under  his  armpit.  And 
then  he  cried  harder  and  hugged  me  and  said  I  was  the 
best  dog  in  the  world  and  the  only  friend  he  ever  had. 

And  then  I  licked  his  face  again  and  he  let  me  and 
we  both  felt  better,  and  pretty  soon  he  went  to  sleep 
there  and  slept  for  an  hour  or  so,  with  his  head  on  my 
ribs,  and  I  lay  there  quiet  so  as  not  to  wake  him.  Even 
when  a  flea  got  me,  I  let  that  flea  bite  and  didn't  scratch 
for  fear  of  waking  him.  But  after  a  while  that  flea  got 
tired  of  me,  and  crawled  over  on  to  Freckles,  and  he 


224    THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

waked  natural.  And  when  he  waked,  he  was  hungry, 
but  he  didn't  want  to  go  into  the  house  for  fear  the 
story  had  spread  to  the  grown-ups  and  he  would  have 
to  answer  questions.  So  he  found  a  couple  of  raw  tur 
nips,  and  ate  them,  and  a  couple  of  apples,  only  they 
were  green,  and  he  milked  the  cow  a  little  into  an  old 
tin  cup  and  drank  that.  And  in  a  little  while  he  begins 
to  have  pains,  and  he  thinks  he  is  getting  heart's  dis 
ease  and  is  really  going  to  die,  but  he  says  to  himself 
out  loud  if  he  dies  now  he  won't  get  any  credit  for  it, 
and  he  would  have  enjoyed  it  more  if  he  had  died  while 
he  still  thought  Little  Eva  was  young  and  beautiful  and 
probably  going  to  marry  him  in  the  end. 

But  after  awhile  it  seems  turning  from  heart's  dis 
ease  into  some  kind  of  stomach  trouble;  so  he  drinks 
some  stuff  out  of  a  bottle  that  was  left  in  the  barn  last 
spring  when  Bessie,  the  old  roan  mare,  had  the  colic, 
and  whether  it  is  heart's  disease  or  stomach  trouble, 
that  stuff  cures  him.  And  him  and  me  drift  along 
downtown  again  to  see  if  maybe  the  kids  have  sort  of 
begun  to  forget  about  it  a  little. 

But  they  hadn't.  It  had  even  spread  to  some  of  the 
grown-ups.  We  went  into  Freckles's  father's  drug 
store,  and  Mr.  Watson  told  Freckles  to  step  around  to 
the  post  office  and  ask  for  his  mail.  And  the  clerk  in 
the  post  office  when  we  come  in,  looks  at  Freckles  very 
solemn  and  says: 

"Ah,  here  is  Mr.  H.  Watson,  after  a  letter!  Will 
you  have  a  letter  written  in  blood?" 

So  Freckles  told  his  dad  there  wasn't  any  mail,  and 


WRITTEN  IN  BLOOD  225 

we  sneaked  along  home  again.  That  night  at  supper  I 
was  lying  on  the  porch  just  outside  the  dining  room 
and  the  doors  were  open,  and  I  heard  Freckles's  dad 
say: 

"Harold,  would  you  like  to  go  to  the  show  to-night?" 

"No,  Pa,"  says  Freckles. 

His  mother  says  that  is  funny;  it  is  the  first  time  she 
ever  heard  him  refuse  to  go  to  a  show  of  any  kind. 
And  his  father  asks  him  if  anything  special  has  hap 
pened  that  makes  him  want  to  stay  away  from  this 
particular  show.  I  guess  when  his  father  says  that, 
Freckles  thinks  his  father  is  wise,  too,  so  he  says  he  has 
changed  his  mind  and  will  go  to  the  show  after  all.  He 
didn't  want  to  start  any  argument. 

So  him  and  me  sneaks  down  to  the  show  grounds 
again.  It  is  getting  dark,  but  too  early  for  the  show, 
and  every  kid  we  know  is  hanging  around  outside.  And 
what  Freckles  has  had  to  stand  for  in  the  way  of  kid 
ding  beforehand  is  nothing  to  what  comes  now.  For 
they  all  gets  around  him  in  a  ring  and  shouts:  "Here  is 
the  bridegroom!  Here  is  Mr.  H.  Watson  come  to  get 
married  to  Little  Eva!  And  the  wedding  invitations 
are  wrote  in  his  own  blood!  His  own  blood!  His  own 
blood!" 

And  the  grown-ups  beginning  to  go  into  the  show 
all  tell  each  other  what  the  kids  are  getting  at,  and  we 
hear  them  laughing  to  each  other  about  it.  Him  and 
me  was  about  the  two  downest-tail-and-head-hanging- 
est  persons  you  ever  saw.  But  we  stayed.  There  wasn't 
no  place  else  to  go,  except  home,  and  we  didn't  want  to 


226         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

go  home  and  be  asked  again  if  there  was  any  special 
reason  for  staying  away  from  that  particular  show. 

And  right  in  the  midst  of  all  the  yelling  and  jostling 
around,  a  kid  about  Freckles's  size  comes  out  cf  the 
show  tent  and  walks  over  to  the  bunch  and  says: 

"Now,  then,  what's  all  this  yelling  about  Little  Eva 
for?" 

All  the  kids  shut  up,  and  this  show  kid  says  to 
Freckles : 

"Was  they  yelling  bridegroom  at  you?" 

Freckles,  he  was  down,  but  he  wasn't  going  to  let  any 
out-of-town  boy  get  away  with  anything,  either.  All 
our  own  gang  had  him  licked  and  disgraced,  and  he 
knew  it;  but  this  was  a  stranger,  and  so  he  spunked  up. 

"S'pose  they  was  yelling  bridegroom  at  me,"  he  says. 
"Ain't  they  got  a  right  to  yell  bridegroom  at  me  if  they 
want  to?  This  is  a  free  country." 

"You  won't  be  yelled  bridegroom  at  if  I  say  you 
won't,"  says  the  show  kid. 

"I'll  be  yelled  bridegroom  at  for  all  of  you,"  says 
Freckles.  "What's  it  to  you?" 

"You  won't  be  yelled  bridegroom  at  about  my 
mother,"  saws  the  show  kid. 

"Who's  being  yelled  bridegroom  at  about  your 
mother?"  says  Freckles.  "I'm  being  yelled  at  about 
Little  Eva." 

"Well,  then,"  says  this  kid,  "Little  Eva  is  my  mother, 
and  you  got  to  stop  being  yelled  at  about  her." 

"Well,  then,"  says  Freckles,  "you  just  stop  me  being 
yelled  at  if  you  think  you're  big  enough." 


WRITTEN  IN  BLOOD  227 

"I  could  lick  two  your  size,"  says  the  show  kid.  "But 
I  won't  fight  here.  I  won't  fight  in  front  of  this  crowd. 
If  I  was  to  fight  here,  your  crowd  might  jump  into  me, 
too,  and  I  would  maybe  have  to  use  brass  knucks,  and 
if  I  was  to  use  brass  knucks,  I  would  likely  kill  someone 
and  be  arrested  for  it.  I'll  fight  in  private  like  a  duel, 
as  gentlemen  ought  to." 

"Well,  then,"  says  Freckles,  "if  any  one  was  to  use 
brass  knucks  on  me,  I  would  have  to  use  brass  knucks 
on  them,  and  I  won't  fight  any  one  that  uses  brass 
knucks  in  private." 

"Well,  then,"  says  the  show  kid,  "my  brass  knucks 
is  in  my  trunk  in  the  tent,  and  you  don't  dast  to  fol 
low  me  and  fight  with  bare  fists/' 

"My  brass  knucks  is  at  home,"  says  Freckles,  which 
was  the  first  I  knew  he  ever  had  any,  "and  I  do  dast." 

So  each  one  searched  the  other  for  brass  knucks,  and 
they  went  off  together,  me  following.  The  fight  was  to 
be  under  the  bridge  over  the  crick  down  by  the  school- 
house  on  the  edge  of  the  woods.  But  when  they  got 
down  there,  the  strip  of  sand  by  the  side  of  the  crick 
was  in  shadow.  So  they  went  on  top  of  the  bridge,  to 
fight  in  the  moonlight.  But  the  moonlight  was  so 
bright  they  were  afraid  they  would  be  seen  by  some 
farmer  coming  into  town  and  maybe  told  on  and  ar 
rested.  So  they  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bridge  with 
their  feet  hanging  over  and  talked  about  where  they  had 
better  fight  to  be  private,  as  gentlemen  should.  And 
they  got  to  talking  of  other  things.  And  pretty  soon 
they  began  to  kind  of  like  each  other,  and  Freckles  says: 


228         THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  OYSTER 

"What's  your  name?" 

"Percy,"  says  the  show  kid.  "But  you  better  not 
call  me  that.  I'd  fight  if  I  was  called  that  out  of  the 
family.  Call  me  Spike.  What's  your  name?" 

"Well,  then,"  says  Freckles,  "I  don't  like  mine  either; 
mine  is  Harold.  But  call  me  Freckles." 

Spike  says  he  wished  he  had  more  freckles  himself. 
But  he  don't  get  much  chance  for  freckles,  he  says;  his 
mother  takes  such  awful  good  care  of  all  the  complex 
ions  in  their  family. 

"Well,  then,"  says  Freckles,  "I  think  your  mother  is 
an  awful  nice  lady." 

Spike,  all  of  a  sudden,  bursts  out  crying  then  and  says 
how  would  Freckles  like  it  if  people  wrote  notes  to  bis 
mother  and  was  yelled  at  about  her?  And  Freckles 
says  how  would  he  like  it  if  he  was  the  one  was  yelled 
at,  and  he  never  had  any  idea  the  lady  was  grown  up 
and  had  a  family,  and  he  got  to  sniffling  some  himself. 

"Spike,"  he  says,  "you  tell  your  mother  I  take  it  all 
back.  You  tell  her  I  was  in  love  with  her  till  I  seen  her 
plain  off  the  stage,  and  since  I  have  seen  her  and  her 
family  plain,  I  don't  care  two  cents  for  her.  And 
I'll  write  her  an  apology  for  falling  into  love  with 
her." 

Which  he  done  it,  then  and  there,  in  the  moonlight, 
jabbing  his  fountain  pen  into  his  wart,  and  it  read: 


Dear  Little  Eva.  Since  I  seen  your  husband  and  son  I 
decided  not  to  say  anything  about  matrimony,  and  beg 
your  pardon  for  it.  This  is  wrote  in  my  blood  and  sets  you 


WRITTEN  IN  BLOOD  229 

free  to  fall  in  love  with  who  you  please.  You  are  older  and 
look  different  from  what  I  expected,  and  so  let  us  forget 
bygones. 

Yours  truly, 

H.  WATSON. 

"Spike,"  says  Freckles,  when  they  were  walking  back 
to  town  together,  chewing  licorice  and  pretending  it  was 
tobacco,  "do  you  really  have  some  brass  knucks?" 

"No,"  says  Spike.     "Do  you,  Freckles?" 

"No,"  says  Freckles. 

And  they  went  back  to  the  tent  together  and  asked 
the  gang  if  they  wanted  any  of  their  game,  and  no 
body  did,  and  the  disgrace  lifted. 

And  I  felt  so  good  about  that  and  the  end  of  the  love- 
affair  and  everything,  that  right  then  and  there  I  hunted 
up  that  Burning  Deck  dog  and  give  him  the  licking  of 
his  life,  which  I  had  never  been  able  to  do  before. 


THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


HEP  2  4 1952  Ll 


1953 


REC'D  LD 

CCT    21957 


81960 


APR  2  4  1961 


LD  21-100».9,'47(A5702sl6)476 


YB  73466 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


